"indus" poems
Raindrops on golden hair.
They are brown spots, little spots
Scattered, wind blowing them
Left and right,
Towards her forehead, smooth
Save for two red bumps above
The eyebrows.
Towards her neck, little hairs
Standing, stubbornly, scornfully,
A protest against the
Rainy chill.
These freckles on her crown,
they are tiny constellations.
I want to join them up,
I want to find Orion,
Trace my fingers against Lepus,
Understand the lines of Indus,
But I can't.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
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...
**********
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 2:10 PM UTC
7 o clock
passing through river indus
look out there
from the windows of bus
golden sun moving on the water
against the cool breeze run
every thing is going out my way
beautiful morning
silent and bare
the breeze is so busy it don't miss a tree
the indus highway is in its own sweet will
every eye was happy
the bell rang ....phone
first once , then twice then thrice
what happened
there is bomb in the university
what type of joke it is ?
its true !
what ?
yes
first my heart freezes
i was trying to hold my soul
there was a explosion in my heart
i asked myself
who you are?
really muslim ?
with strong faith ?
i was convincing myself yes you are a muslim
i have a deed of creed
my heart was tossed up
in the middle it burned me
are you alright ?
yes i am
that sun and wind become the point of fear
my voice was turning back to me in echos
in the huge traffic
blue buses
were grave for us
tell me who the hell is doing this
who is he to die me today
i curse to him in the worst places of hell
hey friend why are you going inside
stop please
for the sake of GOD lets go back home
no
why
because i came to read !
yes but
but many will cry ?
but then they will be silent !
come on
reject the call of terror
he is heart less man ?
what can he do with our lives !!
come on
tell him
we don't fear from him
he is the soul less hell
and we go
where the death stands
but thing i had seen today
everyone also passed through terror
HE WAS NOTHING
see me i am alive
GOD saved me
lets go on the top of highway today
i had also captured the picture of death today
it was a irritating ring
which was
repeatedly asking me "who are you "
" what do you do "
today the winds are blowing better then ever
come to read
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
Remember the Christmas
we rolled our own chipatis,
Indus whole wheat,
like fine beach sand,
an equal measure
of all purpose white,
water, oil, salt as needed,
then rolled thinner
than unemployed hope,
stove top baked on high temp,
topped with fresh tomato red,
and green pepper salsa?
Now, that was bread!
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 11:20 AM UTC
By the great river of Indus, I sit all alone
As I try to find the answers in my own reflection.
Can these waves guide me to my destination?
I can't turn back; I am far away from home.
The ripples are forming just by throwing of a stone.
Will I ever find my salvation?
I envy the birds that can fly without any hesitation.
Oh the great river of Indus! I am all alone.
The soft breeze of the water whispers a song
As if it had heard every word that I said
Or is it just an illusion in my head?
I don't know but the river understands me.
The journey of the great Indus is indeed long.
So I'll just sink down silently.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC
lady of the river indus
they killed you in the evening
they killed you out of love
and the stains that they couldn't wash off of you
they put your head in the water
and let you struggle for breathe
they waited for it to reach your lungs
to fill your mouth
to wash off the words, and emotions
and demands you made,
from mother sindh,
lady of the river indus,
you shouldn't have done so,
you should have let it be,
for they killed you in the evening,
but they could not **** you in my dream.
and now I shake, and feel I'm drowning,
above are the heads of men, surrounding
telling me they want to wash me,
and remove the mud off me.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
A song crawls out of the sludge from the bottom of the Indus River, from beneath the ruins of Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro. The burning sun tries in vain to penetrate the thick foliage of the ancient fig tree beneath which she reclines: the thousand-faced mistress of the myriad temples, the dancer, the priestess, the worshiper, the idol, the eternally pregnant singer…
She who alone knows why no human remains were ever recovered from the excavated city, Mother of a thousand abortions, she who gave birth to the beats of the rhythm—and the space between each beat, the unnameable principle of dread… the slow flow of the river at sunset obscured by smoke of human flesh from the smoldering ghats…
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
The rhythm of the cosmos
Is a waltz
In three steps
Create
Sustain
Decay
A movement
To which all of life
And so art conforms
From literature
With it's beginning
Middle
End
To the great civilizations of the Earth
That rise
Hold
Fall
Just as chest draw breath
As she sleeps
Or the theologians speak
Of their holy trinity
The metaphysical systems of old Indus Valley
Create
Sustain
Decay
Making way for the new notes
We play
As the old fade
Into silence
One step
Two step
Three
Come and dance with me
As the stars inhale
And hold their breath
As we find our feet gracefully
And move in the moment we have
One step
Two step
...
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
No one asked the glaciers
Did they like de-freeze?
Who had that much warmth left?
When was it when someone asked the oceans
How their thirst was quenched ?
Or how they managed to gasp
As layers of greasy filth floated over their breathing pores .
The rivers that flew to them were already dammed :
The little ants are never inquired of their tiny aching backs
Stiffened and sore.
The winds were voted popularly
As spreader of venom
And they did not know why?
From the bosoms of earth
Is ****** all verve out
In name of maternal obligations.
The Indus stained in the blood
Wails violently amidst deep gorges
For relentless rapes occurring over her watery soul
We call power stations.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC
It began as a singular vibration, a heart beat, a steady hum,
and carried through eons.
It was lifted on perfect Devonian wings,
and traveled along with the storms and the breezes.
Mesozoic raptors picked it up,
in bone chilling lashes and screeches.
Then, the songbirds found it,
along with the whales.
Through waves and wind,
this is our gift.
It traveled with the tides and through the air,
and found its way into Indus Valley flutes and strings,
praise to Gods and Goddesses, as it entered all living things.
While it passed as Sirens to Odysseus' wanting ears,
the ancient Celts danced,
their flutes haunted the wild moors...
And each Tribe carried it through prayers and hymns,
laments and dirges,
celebrations and lullabies,
and through love.
Each Tribe carries it still,
through love.
Our gift.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
The endless sands bulging over and breaking
in undulating form
shifting in the winds language of low wolf whistles
and sensual whispers
stretches as far as the minds elasticity
into a sheltered cove where sits,
a desert prophet dreaming of strange rituals
in the mirage of waters and wastelands.
Come time and temperament he will rise
in the chill night to gaze upon the stars
moving within the spangled galaxies
between The Milky Way and Cassopeia,Andromeda,
with Sirius suns rising in a another world
where secrets lay buried in the papyrus
of ancient astrologers who understood
how the earth was born and
other peoples left their mark
for a discovery of millennium future.
The prophet was here once.
Twelve feet tall and striding
between giant obelisks and pyramids
walking oceans, crossing land bridges
and land masses escorting
his forbears to seed the earth.
"I will return in time
ten thousand years after the Aztecs
Machu Pichu, Indus and Empires
built on carved gods and seven headed hydra,
to rule again unquestioned, as before. Think.
Till then -leave what I have left behind
for you to caretake. Stay still. Understand.
Author Notes
Return?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
living in a murky world
listening to their silt laden words
started taking a toll on her
as she started losing
the vision and the clarity
slowly turning blind like
an indus dolphin !!
May 18, 2023
May 18, 2023 at 2:19 PM UTC
Pearl of the Indus,
January fades into February.
February slumbers in march on your lap,
I wonder what’s with the November criminals.
The waves of silence that
Hit our ears and eyes in October;
Did they get engulfed by the November criminals?
Late into the Maytime
January faded into February.
The flowers napped happily
As February bloomed it to march.
I understand if the flowers were stolen by the November criminals
But must they shroud the heavens too?
The little child wails along with sky and above
When the other children
Set them to fire.
November criminals;
What do you see in those November flower pots?
That you miss in march’s pots.
Do they have to crackle to bring joy in you?
Do they have to combust to bring life around you?
When they often take them away from you.
if you move with the moon every year,
why conceal it with your fog every night
during the five-day strike?
November criminals,
I’m afraid you can’t be contained.
The customs are bigger than the laws in our land.
Hopefully, you pass as a man-made disaster…
-4324
Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 12:11 PM UTC
And just like that humans’ grandchildren had no longer any nature to fear. The realization caught like wildfire, “If I own a piece I can preserve it forever…” and so the skins, tusks, and ***** content of Terre’s wildlife were mined, processed, and stored away on the dusty shelves of a million or so peoples’ soon to be rotten bookshelves. Systematically, part and parcel of the threads of the wild world were sectioned, cut, and numbered so that the remaining lives, if you could call them that, would all have a souvenir of a living planet.
The hunt began a feeding frenzy; taking more human lives than what was even left of any African bush elephant, or Indus river dolphin. The hunger that consumed humanity was not for lives, no, but for the shreds of physical evidence that something once had lived, and it was at no expended cost that every last giraffe, tree frog, and jack-rabbit was displayed on artificial walls under fluorescent lights.
“The man who sold me this piece said a whole village worth of people fought over the carcass.” When questioned,
“which village?” he replied,
“I didn’t get to ask. He was called over to aisle 9.”
Those who could afford it were buried with their different duckbills, and lizard toes, snakeskins, and fish fins. Covered like a mummified Frankenstein in the garb of a living world. Stored in a plastic container and neatly tucked into a concrete wall surrounded by weathered stones and a manicured lawn. Their family would tell stories about how greatly they loved life in all forms, how hard they worked, how many they killed in order to procure such wonderful treasures. Their story was forgotten; like a thirsty root in the desert.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
i don't where i read, or heard it from... but from what i read, or heard, it became known to me, that Cain was a vegetarian, while Abel was an omnivore... when Cain laid his offering to god: vegetables, fruits... Abel offered at the altar a kosher sheep. so why would Cain attempt to **** Abel? was Cain a hindu? did he walk all the way to the Indus, and proclaimed a civilisation of polytheism? seems like that that's what might have "mythologically" happened. then again, i do remember my great-grandmother reading me a very beautiful version of the bible, with pictures... maybe that's a memory of seeing the picture of Cain offering vegetarian produce, while Abel offering the kosher slaughter of a sheep.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 11:37 AM UTC
Amid the rubble
Of four dim millennia peeled back
A square of carved steatite lay
Lifted
Gently as a gossamer hope
To reveal
That mythic beast
A single horn curving
From its striated head
Whose fame reached Grecian ears
From Indus bed
Across miles & years
Leaving an inkmark murmur
Sep 4, 2020
Sep 4, 2020 at 6:31 AM UTC
Hanging on the leaves of the Barringtonia acutangula,
There are a few dewdrops-
To the little birdy that is, the huge Indus.
Drizzling on the lips, those drops of water-
Carrying in the beak, exhaled in joy,
No more worry.
His joys strengthened further, and he said,
My mother is standing next to me, so why should I think-
After tasting with full of heart, will look into the other branches.
Aug 18, 2021
Aug 18, 2021 at 12:55 AM UTC