Shall I mourn you like the valley dyed red
in the evening fires of the late summer;
Or distant caves lost to the ravines of time
parched the dragons and dreamtimes
mourned of long the artist lover;
Or dead the lumber in the wood
felled, mourning, chipped by the pecker
now in the season who tells how much
the rain and how much the tears?
Dry the gorge cut deep by the river of longing.
Oh the aeons lost when the door
to thy chamber was locked:
decorated and adored but so so distant;
Now I bare my chest to the skies
and dare wet this lump that lies beating
only for you only for you
that torrents be eviscerated
mourning your absence
like all the mountains at dawn
all the stars in the deep
all the dimples in the rumble river
wind in the valley bend;
Death, I want not, for I can't bear
remembering how I lost you another time
and life vain now I know how I lost you
ghost have I become alive
mourning for you, oh pragya paramita!
pragya paramita!

Drop by  drop  i saw
Shedding  in  the  leaves of leaping  flame
Have   you seen deadpan tears ?
They are  melt of   .  
Broken fire  ,broken dreams ,and broken soul .
All my little  eyes saw in  bruised broken  bangles.
My little  heart  balked  to  revolt ,but too  much was her endurance !
It was  not a tale  of  yearlong ,
But  long  a  long
So long that nobody  want  to  remember
Even  my  pen don’t want  to  spread  much ink
As it brings a flood of  red tears  in black  December .

Dr  Pragya  Suman
copyright@pragya suman

Pragya Bhagat's Poem:
this poem isn’t an answer
it’s a question
how do we become the stories we tell ourselves
how do we become the stories we tell
how do we become the stories
how do we become
how do we
how

My response:
Answer Can Be

Or rather the stories become us
Perhaps no becoming
Perhaps they just are
As they wait for expression
Hidden beyond sight

As  you  were standing  among  the  crowd
Like  a  delicate  tendril  upon  the spear of  chauvinist !
Your  dignity was  sulking  and  sapping  out  by  and  by
I  was  little enough  to pick your peril
But I still  dared and  you  survived…
You know when  for  a  brief  our  glance  met and I caught your moist
Clouds  were  witness and they  endured  my  melting  iron  heart
So  many  years  has  gone
Whenever  raining  happens  
my  body  quivers  at the mere  touch  of  that  moist .

Dr  Pragya  Suman
copyright@pragya suman 2/3/2020

Goraiya
by Pragya Bhagat

The Hindi word for sparrow is goraiya
It skips across my tongue and lingers in my mouth like the aftertaste of toffee
Goraiya
I like that word
If I had to draw a picture of a sparrow with sound
My word would sound like goraiya

You tell me they travel in flocks
That they like bathing in the summer
By hopping off a table and skidding in water
You tell me that the males are pretty but the women run the show

They don’t chirp among strangers
These sparrows
They avoid eye contact and move only if you’re very
Very
Still

You tell me about the time you tried to catch them
With a rope and stick and some rice
Sometimes they didn’t let you nap in the day time
Because their symphony was louder than your dreams

How I see the sparrow, you say
Depends on who I am
A child will play their games
An old man will listen to their music
So I wonder what I’ll see
In this mirror of a bird

She makes eye contact if you’re still
Because that’s how she knows you’re listening
She lets herself be caught
So that she has something to fight for
Her favourite part of the day
Is when she learns a new word
That skips across her tongue
And lingers like the aftertaste of toffee

She flicks from puddle to puddle
Sharing her words with those building dictionaries of their own
Of course she won’t let you nap in the day time
Because the sun is out
The trees have cracked their knuckles
And today’s the day she sings her symphony

Some stories aren’t written but felt
They melt into your skin like a mother’s smile
Some stories are so simple
They open windows inside us we didn’t know still opened
And all it takes is a word that sounds like its picture

You tell me that sparrows don’t chirp among strangers
We are no longer strangers

Synesthesia - Red
by Kashi

Quickening red sad emotions well as I stumble
Speechless until red becomes the rage
Quickening rage thundering heart takes over
Till the release of tornado leaving destruction
Along its wake

"Beauties are scattered in **** form on the sea beaches", Albert Camus wisphered  in a mesmerising moment. I agree with you Albert.
One day I was sipping Wine by hiding it in a coconut shell, you were lingering in my memory . I seek salvation in hiding because I am a tropical lady. For hundred years I didn't see the sun , though that was overhead ,and I was in my anthill.
I am black ant trailing among stalagmites, skyscrapers and scruples in biting bread.
One day I left my ahead ant prints which were carved  from hundreds of years ago. I derailed and came beneath the same car of your last riding.
I still look for the beaches and want to take a dip, but I cannot, you know my wings have gone along with you.

Copyright@Dr Pragya suman

when sigh forbade
to subdue
and exhaled out in a screech
tearing away the soul,
I saw futile war of ism
got littered in soiled red brook
that gushed away
beneath the red flag whole.
The ****** of red tell was yet to come
I saw a thin flesh of skeleton
alive and stood
against the mighty tank, which shook
everything  at once in a  moment.
Fear was in the air, tremble in mine curtains everything moved up except one
I blinked up my shutters.
Now I move up the world again and again.

Copyright @Dr Pragya suman
*************
Footnote: This is not the first time that China is facing blame for the Corona crisis. On Tiananmen square, one of the most heinous pogrom was done. Many students who were advocating democracy slaughtered broad and daylight. A photographer named Charlie Cole captured that moment in his camera .
China has always followed expansionary policy.
#Tiananmen square

The concoction of cobweb caught me
in curved core ,
beats of rhythms slithered away…!
Minarets of constantinople trapped in
as spinning disc of  krishna The Lord
got chiseled in the liar's sword.
Hooves of stallions nudged away
when my hand  slained my heart
oneday i would invite my God
to be with me in my concoction and
rotten reflections .
my faults  would endure the curse
I am one who spoiled God !

Copyright@Dr Pragya Suman

When  in  a  desolate  enlightened  evening
I  made  tea ,you looked bemused for a while
Washed  down  in  one  gulp ,as  drastic depart was going to be  there
Denial  was  in  your  eyes ,tears  were  in  my  heart
Last  waving  hand  is  still  in the air !
I drank your  left ...  
My lip  got  charred as  fire was  in your  leftover.
That day  my  black lip sang a song  of  bereavement .
Since  then i  have  endured  multiple  fire
Until the flame  of  a  pyre  came  to  my  rescue !
I saw  your  sublimation  in ,reduced to  ashes
As  flames  were leaping in the  graveyard
A fire was also  alighted  in  my  heart
My soul  engulfed all of  them  in a  glow
That  day  i  became  snow .

Dr  Pragya  SUMAN
copyright@drpragyasuman

I erupted out of the cocoon
insular island,
tiny larva
budding in me, moving
among the raw skyscrapers.
Drilling in scaffold
makes a hole
in my bleak bone.
I halted at a cart of voluble vender
Both are sellers.
In paper cone of salty few nuts ,
I selled ,
A stark loner.
Copyright@Dr Pragya Suman

Me a tiny tot , would throw pebbles
on the storm ,to get them to stop !
wrong I was, as like uncontrollable rhyme
they subterfuge me still .
I am a seeker of shelly ,
but rugged words of Carlyle
have been trolling me !

In the days of festive bath, my feet were
stand still in the bottom but
hands moving on the flapping waves !
Standing on the bank ,
my mother caught my malingering.
I am still half and half
in breakage of mine .
Though I am invisible
as my mother is no more !

Copyright @Dr Pragya Suman

I took in the  suburb my first facelift,
failed in the graveyard
In the pestle dusk
venus was overhead
got charred.
Lightning rod in the creek
of my skull
is rusted,
Undertow churning wheel of whirlpool
giving fresh wrinkles up
Too much
for my fragile facelifts.

Copyright@Dr Pragya Suman