"pragya" poems
The most gorgeous girl in the world,
I remember Pragya by her anonym,
Now all I have are her memories,
Yes they are sweet and delicious.
Real life angel she was my friend,
Each day in her company was good,
Memories of us smiling together,
Early riser she so inspired me,
Maybe she does not have time,
Busy she is too much for memories,
Regal used to be her elegant smiles,
Again I hope that I come across her,
No one is immortal but memories are,
Centuries ago maybe I had known her,
Every memory I can recollect sharply.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC
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!
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
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
Aug 30, 2024
Aug 30, 2024 at 12:22 AM UTC
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
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 9:44 AM UTC