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cupid Aug 2023
Sita smiles as i bring her a sandwich
Two toasts with butter, ham, and cheese
And yet sita smiles as if i've made her a 5 course meal
Sita smiles as i make her a drink of my own recipe
‘Thank you pepe’ she says
And brandishes a glass of mysterious content
She hasn’t tasted it yet
But still she smiles

Sita cheers for me as i run down the soccer field
She’s waiting for me with a hug, even after games i don't play
From the bench
I can see her smile
Sita is waiting in the car i've known my whole life
‘How was school’ she says
Always with a smile

‘I'm coming home Sita’
It's been 2 years since i've seen her
She doesn’t ask when
She doesn't ask how
She smiles

‘I can't come home Sita’
It's the day after the flight i couldn’t get on
She doesn’t ask when i can
She doesn’t ask but I tell her how I missed it
I tell her i love her and will see her soon
She smiles

It's been 3 years since i've seen her
Sita tells me she has cancer
I tell her she's the strongest person i know
I love her
She smiles

‘I promise i’ll fly out to new zealand to see you’
The last time we spoke
She tells me she hates the food there
I think about how i’ll make her a sandwich, like i used to
I tell her it’ll be okay, she’ll be okay
‘I love you Sita, I promise I’ll see you soon’
She doesn’t ask when
She doesn’t ask how
Sita looks at me, the face I’ve known all my life
And she smiles
Sita has sadly passed away, and I think she's taken a piece of me with her.
Oh! Rama you are the most virtuous
You are the eldest son of king Dasaratha’s
You always stood by your word
You are the greatest man in the world
Your wife Sita is the most pious woman
Your step mother kaika asked your father for a boon
She asked you to go to the forest
She refused your father’s request
You obliged your father’s promise
He grieved to lose your loving kiss
Along with your chaste wife
In forest you spent fourteen years’ strenuous life
Brother Lakshmana shared your strife
He cut demon shurphanaka’s nose with a knife
The demon Ravana came in disguise
Sita fell a prey to his vice
He abducted her to his kingdom
Sita was deprived of her freedom
You wept for Sita like a man
Trials and tribulations are very common
You made friends with Lord Hanuman
He was undoubtedly a super man
He flew to Ravana”s kingdom
And relieved Sita”s boredom
He assured her Rama would **** the demon
Because He was supra human
In the fierce fight
You were too great for his sight
Ravana fell down in the battle field
Sita was freed from his yield
You were crowned king
Many songs did the people sing
We celebrate your birth day with religious zeal
All our troubles you will seal
By JVL NARASIMHA RAO
vircapio gale Aug 2012
on moonstone slab Manmata flames again
from out of ashes rises, gloating unfinality of Shiva's dance
reincarnate offering of endless Self
in Lakshmi's avatar
a fateful prince's heart to lance

and lanced his heart her visage did,
                                                     though with vaster pinions fully pierced was she, in depths
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 without rivalry~

his lust was sharp to invite solitude,
but easy to conceal,
he imagined cupping her against him,
scoured memory of upward glimpse,
inch  by  inch
with added imagery, invention moulding her
beneath his grasp
from forehead curls along
glowing skin and eyes
to curving, palatially appareled ******* . . .
her open lips . . .  her hips
--but after, merely to dismiss
and even sleep a bit
and quip inside at irony
to be at mercy
of a girl in flowers
when he with arrows demons lay to rest
(though she would, within the selfsame hours lose her wits ;)

in cityscape descried the triad:
gold dome gifts for sky
in shining generosity
Mithila's people overflow with joy
exuding free abundance carelessly--
jewelry loosed on playful street
from overkeen embrace, is left to lie;
loss in ever-present wealth nigh obsolete

musth of elephant, froth of steed,
floral garlands tangle, line and mix
for clouds of honey-bees to lick their feast.
a bustling of virile acrobatic populace--
symphonic mux of chaos tressed,
metropolis of idylls coalesced;
drums, races, grinning faces flinging courtship,
smirking merchants under wigs
bathers splash exotic fish to flit and weave
while ballads sift for higher pitch of love

from elevated terrace ladies prance
and watching from an inner spire
the princess spies her prince--
emerald shoulders, lotus-petal eyes
Vaikunta hidden from their mortal sight
but straining recognition there,
a union ageless as the stars
inspired suddenly another first:
Rama's transfixed stare she feels and meets,
strangers locked entwining glances
--fated simultaneous-- electric heat   like
from a planet sparking for the taste of outer space --
the lightning burns its mark ensouled
in blooms beyond her ripe, anthophilous form,
verdant visions planted in the rays of light
between two instant loves
to slip inside the eyelid entrance
and evermore impregnate with a glory ill,
as separation wills,
to colonize throughout with other Being there
phantasmal yearnings of entrancing elegance
--from dawn of time instilled, akashic script
of binding hurt with joy in love's embrace
condemn desire to a writhing term
when not imbibing such togetherness
a worldless crypt preferred

and so as swift as gymnast flip to fall
the heart is gushing toxic lack,
epic ventricles the viscose tug
in fluid inspiration wrote of Sita's
sudden addict gnashing inner plight
while slips the sight interred within the crowd,
as if a sorcerer the cosmic sea to play her destiny:
the waves inside enraged to overwhelm
the sudden coral crust beneath the swell
an unmarked seaside's lavish drown unto the land
and reeling send this fragile ******
into wilting, her floral haze to drooping fell...
        in revelatory crash of passion's oceanic weight...
attendants pamper uselessly
--from swoon to mood irate
to wait until the next appearance of her mortal god
the only one to sate the shameless need
entwining up within a clenching wrack of milky fits
from bed to sweaty bed they take the burning maiden~
the outer sea inflow in calming dusk meant nothing to the agony of new romance
                       sequestered in hymenic fire, dawning brilliant
                                                       ­                                omni chakral pierce in rays,
                                                                ­                                                              tot­ality relentlessness
and therein descry a wholeness
  yet unregained
a hopeless birdsong careless as the wind
in caring strokes of pollen redolence
for forest ears an endless vibrate mate
of elemental ease the simmer float
upon the dukkha broil paths embroidery of karmic
cookery the godly recipe invoked,
gibed her without cease,
****** flare eternal guna coals to stoke
and spite her with their peace,
for her attainment only next to he
the moon communes the message blinding clear
amid the ghee her girls would light in care
to soften her despair -- but only aggravate her state --
and so by dim refracted moondrops set,
in only gemlight, Sita basks in pain
her gaze entrained by night obsessively
while overhead the crescent hook beams
freely in to fertilize her all-too-chastely girdle there,
petals wilting under body pressed to slab of stone
as mounting groan on groan intones her writhing questioning
of whomever he could be to cast her moaning so
a deity in maidenhead unwitting of such otherlife
left by endless, anthrocosmos' whim to ache, and alone
in wonder scream abandonment from aether poise
confusion reigning noisome nescient choice


















.
Manmata: the god of love, who Shiva is said to have burned to ashes with the purity of his contemplation
Lakshmi: Hindu goddess of wealth, prosperity (both material and spiritual), fortune, and the embodiment of beauty. She is the consort of the god Vishnu. She takes her mortal form as Sita in the Ramayana, destined for Rama (who is Vishnu's avatar).
Guna: an element, 'thread', 'string' or principle of nature; the three gunas are (sattva), (rajas), and (tamas)
Dukkha: suffering
Anthro-: as in 'human'

"The impact of the Ramayana on a poet, however, goes beyond mere personal edification; it inspires him to compose the epic again in his own language, with the stamp of his own personality on it.  The Ramayana has thus been the largest source of inspiration for the poets of India throughout the centuries . . . Thus we have centuries-old Ramayana in Hindi, Bengali, Assamese, Oriya, Tamil, Kannada, Kashmiri, Telugu, Malayalam, to mention a few."   -R.K. Narayan (whose prose version of Kamban's 11th c.e.Tamil --originally written on palm leaves-- i'm reading at the moment, and whose advice i've found myself compelled to follow. in no way am i an authority, but an amateur--literally--'in love')

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/ramas-inauguration-facing-the-murderous-gluttony-of-thataka/

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/soorpanaka-the-demon-as-kamavalli-lusts-for-rama-1/
Meera May 2018
The princess who chose
To live in exile
Holding  the hand of her husband
With a beautiful smile

Framed in a guile by Ravan
But she didn't fall in his wicked ways
Despite being held captive
And tortured for nights and days

She refused to go with Hanuman
When he came to rescue her
Insisted that Rama come openly to defeat her captor
In Rama's honor exile did she prefer

On the Ravan's  defeat - to prove her purity
She had to walk through fire
But the flames neither touched her body
And nor her attire

The fire bowed in her honor
But that wasn't enough
For the clouds of gloom  
Were towering above

The world has never been fair to women
Despite of proving her purity
Sita had to leave
It was the height of cruelty

Cause Rama was as weak
In the face of his men
As strong he was
In front of Ravan

Rama- the man
Sita loved enough to die for
Asked her to leave
To the path that led abhor

Just imagine the way Sita would be looking at Rama
With whom she had to part
For he was standing dumb like a statue
When her world was falling apart

Would she have accused or looked down at him
As she asked mother earth to swallow her
She was going back to where she came from
In order to save the last shred of her honor
Sita was raised by King Janaka; she was not his natural daughter but sprang from a furrow when he was ploughing his field. Rama won her as his bride by bending Shiva’s bow, and she accompanied her husband when he went into exile. Though carried away to Lanka by Ravana, she kept herself chaste by concentrating her heart on Rama throughout her long imprisonment. On her return she asserted her purity and also proved it by voluntarily undergoing an ordeal by fire. Rama, however, banished her to the forest in deference to public opinion. There she gave birth to their two children, Kusha and Lava. After they reached maturity and were acknowledged by Rama to be his sons, she called upon her mother, Earth, to swallow her up.

Sita is worshipped as the incarnation of Lakshmi, the consort of Vishnu. Though often regarded as the embodiment of wifely devotion and self-sacrifice, she is critical of Rama at times, even in the earliest version of the Ramayana, and in some of the later versions of the story she departs from the idealized, chaste image of the earlier text.
MAI BAHV SUCHI UN BHAVO KI
JO BIKE SADDA HI BIN TOLE
TANHAI HU HAR US KHAT KI  JO
JO PADHA GYA HAI BIN KHOLE

HAR AANSU KO HAR PATTHAR TAK
PAHUNCHANE KI LACHAR HUK
MAI SAHAJ ARTH  UN SABDO KA
JO SUNE GYE HAI BIN BOLE

JO KABI NAHI BARSA KHUL KAR
HAR US BADA L KA PANI HU
LAV-KUSH KI TEER BINA GAYE
SITA KIA RAM KAHANI HU

MAI BHAV SUCHI UN BHAVO KI.
............

KI JINKE SAPNO KE TAJ MAHAL
BAN NE  SE PAHLE TUT GAYE
JI HAATHO ME DO HAATH KABHI
AANE  SE PAHLE CHUT GYE
DHARTI  PAR JINKE KHONE AUR
PAANE KI AJAB KAHANI HAI
KISHMAT KI DEVI MAAN GYE
PAR PRANAY DEVETA RUTH GYE

MAI MAILI CHADAR WALE US
KABIRA KI AMRIT VANI HU
LAV-KUSH KI TEER BINA GAYE
SITA KKI RAM KAHANI HU

KUCH KAHTE HAI MAI SEEKHA HU
APNE JAKHMO KO KHUDSEE KAR
KUCH JAAN GYE MAI HASHTA HU
BHEETAR BHEETAR ANSU PEEKAR

KUCH KAHTE HAI MAI HU VIRODH SE
UPJI EK KHUDAAR VIJAY
KUCH KAHTE HAI  MAI MARTA HU
KHUD ME JEEKAR  KHUD ME MARKAR
LEKIN MAI HAR CHATURI KI
SOCHI SAMJHI NADANI HU
LAV-KUSH KI TEER  BINA GAYE
SITA KI RAM KAHANI HU...

WRITTEN BY   ::::::  SHASHANK KUMAR DWIVEDI
Mai bhav suchi un bhavo ki
jo bike sada hi bin tole
Tanhai hu har us khat ki
jo padha gya h bin khole..

Har aanshu ko har patthar tak
pahuchane ki laachar huk
Mai sahaj arth un sabdo ka
jo sune gye h bin bole..

Jo kabhi nahi barsha khul kar
har uss badal ka paani hu
Lav-Kush ki teer bina gaye
Sita ki Ram kahani hu..

Ki jinke sapno ke Taj -Mahal
ban ne se pahle tut gaye
Jin haatho me do haath kabhi
aane se pahle chut gaye
Dharti par jinke khone aur
paane ki ajab kahani h
Kishmat ki devi maan gye
par pranay devta ruth gaye..

Mai maili chadar wale uss
Kabira ki amrit vaani hu
Lav-Kush ki teer bina gaye
Sita ki raam kahani hu..

Kuch kahte hai mai sikha hu
apne jakhmo ko khud see kar
Kuch jaan gaye mai hashta hu
bhitar bhitar aanshu peekar..

Kuch kahte hai mai virodh se
uppji ek khuddar vijay
Kuch kahte hai mai marta hu
khud me jeekar khud me markar..

Leekin mai har chaturai ki
sochi samjhi  naadani hu
Lav-Kush ki teer bina gaye
Sita ki Ram kahani hu
Copyright© Shashank K Dwivedi
email-shashankdwivedi.edu@gmail.com
Follow me on Facebook-https://www.facebook.com/skdisro
vircapio gale Aug 2012
boasting of the god of love's attentions,
this magicweaver lures her prey--
conjures forth her whim
seeking quench of fickle thirst within
attempting avenues of guile
numerously failed, and baits another heart
to suit her object's mate,
whose favors hail from Shiva
unto dominion everywhere,
  except at forest hut where Rama--
with Sita --honeymoons in exile
having snapped the cosmic dancer's massive bow
to win her for his wife, yet bound
by family word to wilderness
  in elder-shade of mystic eagle
guarded by their builder,
brother Lakshmana, in whose absence Kamavalli comes
to woo the godlike archer for her own.

little bells on anklets ring--
from creeper snagged
as if in venery yearning,
urgent vines would find their way to rest on skin
and squeeze in verdant rooting underform
prancing by, playfully demure
to enter subdued greenery
of Panchvati's gated yard
to catch the stoic Rama's eye
in invitation flashing for his gaze:
a sculptured form of flawless grace
nubile teeth shining from the forest dark,
a smile unassuming of callipygean sway
beneath the flitting lashes of her iris' swell

baffled there he stirs to praise her openly
as perfect--
despite his inner-goddess-for-a-wife he keeps inside--
with tripping words
welcomes and blesses this new girl,
exalting her with blushing queries,
sylvan surging rush to know
interrogate her mystery,
rapt in wide-eyed wonder verging beatific breath--
but learning of her lineage...
begins to plot their deaths.

banter light,
flirtations with a hidden, cosmic weight to pun against,
his praise asserts its hold
pretending bachelorhood;
his kindly, transauthentic voice resists
and in a sympathetic, skillful tone, promulgates
a drama to entice her eager mind--
ironic fancies of domestic bliss
flow from Rama, subtle jests
become her plight obsessing
into darkness embered with her lust
to truly claim him as her love,
her grandiosity defused in simple
entertainment quipping of their castes
and then with sudden burst entranced in luminescent rays of stunning rustic glow
from cottage comes his wife to claim her presence known.

the blow is dealt: Manmatha lays Kamavalli's fate: to self-disintegrate

jealousy to deafen gods, in cave retreat
to nurse her spite, surrounded in a dance
of serpent flails to sate her woe,
and only feed in ouroboros knotslip pulse
a lump-filled throat of gulping incite forward zest salacious
pungent flare of earth identity of fang and blood
the cry to shudder down a wolfine howl
in blast of animal, from screaming womanhood
the swoon precipitate-- vast height, abysmal fall
on being spurned by one who led her on
into delusion wrapped in sham an alter self
she met in bed a thousand cravings razing sanity
into a hate for moon, for elements themselves,
railing at Manmatha's haze infernal globe within and out
projecting Rama's face transfixing her inept
in wracking convulse whine of every cell,
her being sweating out imagined arms,
palms of his to cup her, lift from hellish pit of stifled longing never known 'til volcanically regrown--
in new love's throws an innocence of honest
selfhood found in him, bizarrely enemied in Lila's
killing spree of ego-dolls of lotus costume tracing all
searching through his fresh phantasm for her quelling salve
his diamond ******* targets for her soul
his broadness engirthing her to moan until her last in ecstasy
unknown asura-brew untold invented only now forever lost,
the moment fondled vastly gone,
his chest but gossamer instead of flesh
the emerald shoulder glimmer fake
the boundless confidence exuded in his
tender skin's encapsulated sinew strength
merely thought on causing pelvic quake
repeating there an apparition for her nearly endless letting out
he comes for her a demon double of her making
demi-god creator-demon vision for her writhing,
abandoned to the ambrosia torment he provides
wailing at the cavern sky her prison boudoir den
enscaled with slither pile coat of snakes, masturbatory wake of swooning still again

through to dawn..
in which psychotic break decides:
Soorpanaka births herself anew--
possession of her goal, or suicide.
the dewy spectra shines reflection of the choice;
rave committal forms its mould--
exhaustion hatches colorspray of plots,
braving mutilation to abduct,
lies and bribes surmounting each before
in ****** propositions to her ever widened bed,
else demonic armies loosed,
infatuate Ravana's heart
with illusory snare of golden Sita's rumored wares
to get her man alone and hew derision
with her desperate charm, by cantrip or war
spawned from deeper lairs of a broken,
fallacious heart, toward matrimony
or destruction bent













.
"Hark! Lakshman! Hark, again that cry!
                 It is, — it is my husband's voice!
             Oh hasten, to his succour fly,
                 No more hast thou, dear friend, a choice.
             He calls on thee, perhaps his foes
                 Environ him on all sides round,
            That wail, — it means death's final throes!
                 Why standest thou, as magic-bound?


             "Is this a time for thought, — oh gird
               Thy bright sword on, and take thy bow!
           He heeds not, hears not any word,
               Evil hangs over us, I know!
           Swift in decision, prompt in deed,
               Brave unto rashness, can this be,
           The man to whom all looked at need?
               Is it my brother that I see!


           "Oh no, and I must run alone,
               For further here I cannot stay;
           Art thou transformed to blind dumb stone!
               Wherefore this impious, strange delay!
           That cry, — that cry, — it seems to ring
               Still in my ears, — I cannot bear
           Suspense; if help we fail to bring
               His death at least we both can share"


          "Oh calm thyself, Videhan Queen,
               No cause is there for any fear,
           Hast thou his prowess never seen?
               Wipe off for shame that dastard tear!
           What being of demonian birth
               Could ever brave his mighty arm?
           Is there a creature on earth
               That dares to work our hero harm?


           "The lion and the grisly bear
               Cower when they see his royal look,
           Sun-staring eagles of the air
               His glance of anger cannot brook,
           Pythons and cobras at his tread
               To their most secret coverts glide,
           Bowed to the dust each serpent head
               ***** before in hooded pride.


           "Rakshasas, Danavs, demons, ghosts,
               Acknowledge in their hearts his might,
           And slink to their remotest coasts,
               In terror at his very sight.
           Evil to him! Oh fear it not,
               Whatever foes against him rise!
           Banish for aye the foolish thought,
               And be thyself, — bold, great, and wise.


           "He call for help! Canst thou believe
               He like a child would shriek for aid
           Or pray for respite or reprieve —
               Not of such metal is he made!
           Delusive was that piercing cry, —
               Some trick of magic by the foe;
           He has a work, — he cannot die,
               Beseech me not from hence to go.


           For here beside thee, as a guard
               'Twas he commanded me to stay,
           And dangers with my life to ward
               If they should come across thy way.
           Send me not hence, for in this wood
               Bands scattered of the giants lurk,
           Who on their wrongs and vengeance brood,
               And wait the hour their will to work."


           "Oh shame! and canst thou make my weal
               A plea for lingering! Now I know
           What thou art, Lakshman! And I feel
               Far better were an open foe.
           Art thou a coward? I have seen
               Thy bearing in the battle-fray
           Where flew the death-fraught arrows keen,
               Else had I judged thee so today.


           "But then thy leader stood beside!
               Dazzles the cloud when shines the sun,
           Reft of his radiance, see it glide
               A shapeless mass of vapours dun;
           So of thy courage, — or if not,
               The matter is far darker dyed,
           What makes thee loth to leave this spot?
               Is there a motive thou wouldst hide?


           "He perishes — well, let him die!
               His wife henceforth shall be mine own!
           Can that thought deep imbedded lie
               Within thy heart's most secret zone!
           Search well and see! one brother takes
               His kingdom, — one would take his wife!
           A fair partition! — But it makes
               Me shudder, and abhor my life.


           "Art thou in secret league with those
               Who from his hope the kingdom rent?
           A spy from his ignoble foes
               To track him in his banishment?
           And wouldst thou at his death rejoice?
               I know thou wouldst, or sure ere now
           When first thou heardst that well known voice
               Thou shouldst have run to aid, I trow.


           "Learn this, — whatever comes may come,
               But I shall not survive my Love,
           Of all my thoughts here is the sum!
            Witness it gods in heaven above.
         If fire can burn, or water drown,
             I follow him: — choose what thou wilt
         Truth with its everlasting crown,
             Or falsehood, treachery, and guilt.


         "Remain here with a vain pretence
             Of shielding me from wrong and shame,
         Or go and die in his defence
             And leave behind a noble name.
         Choose what thou wilt, — I urge no more,
             My pathway lies before me clear,
         I did not know thy mind before,
             I know thee now, — and have no fear."


         She said and proudly from him turned, —
             Was this the gentle Sita? No.
         Flames from her eyes shot forth and burned,
             The tears therein had ceased to flow.
         "Hear me, O Queen, ere I depart,
             No longer can I bear thy words,
         They lacerate my inmost heart
             And torture me, like poisoned swords.


         "Have I deserved this at thine hand?
             Of lifelong loyalty and truth
         Is this the meed? I understand
             Thy feelings, Sita, and in sooth
         I blame thee not, — but thou mightst be
             Less rash in judgement, Look! I go,
         Little I care what comes to me
             Wert thou but safe, — God keep thee so!


         "In going hence I disregard
             The plainest orders of my chief,
         A deed for me, — a soldier, — hard
             And deeply painful, but thy grief
         And language, wild and wrong, allow
             No other course. Mine be the crime,
         And mine alone. — but oh, do thou
             Think better of me from this time.


         "Here with an arrow, lo, I trace
             A magic circle ere I leave,
         No evil thing within this space
             May come to harm thee or to grieve.
         Step not, for aught, across the line,
             Whatever thou mayst see or hear,
         So shalt thou balk the bad design
             Of every enemy I fear.


         "And now farewell! What thou hast said,
             Though it has broken quite my heart,
         So that I wish I were dead —
             I would before, O Queen, we part,
         Freely forgive, for well I know
             That grief and fear have made thee wild,
         We part as friends, — is it not so?"
             And speaking thus he sadly smiled.


         "And oh ye sylvan gods that dwell
             Among these dim and sombre shades,
         Whose voices in the breezes swell
             And blend with noises of cascades,
         Watch over Sita, whom alone
             I leave, and keep her safe fr
Maa ki mamta ko dekh maut v
aage se hat jati hai
gar  maa apmanit hoti
dharti ki chaati fat jaati hai
ghar ko pura jeevan dekar
bechari maa kya pati hai
rukha sukha kha leti hai
paani *** kar soo jati hai

Jo maa jaisi devi ghar ke
mandir me nahi rakh sakte hai
wo lakho punya bhale kar le
inshan nahi ban sakte hai
maa jisko v jal de-de
wo paudha sandal ban jata hai
maa ke charno ko chukar paani
Gangajal ban jata hai

Maa ke anchal ne yugo-yugo se
Bhagwano ko pala hai
maa ke charno me jannat hai
Girijaghar aur Shivala hai
Himgiri jaisi unchai hai
sagar jaisi gahrai hai
dunia me jitni khushboo hai
maa ke anchal se aaye hai

Maa kabira ki sakhi hai
maa tulsi ki chaupai hai
meerabai ki padawali
khusru ki amar rubai hai
maa angan ki tulsi jaisi
pawan bargad ki chaya hai
maa ved richao ki garima
maa mahakavya ki maya hai

Maa maansarovar mamta ka
maa gomukh ki unchai hai
maa parivaro ka sangam hai
maa rishto ki gahrai hai
maa hari dubh hai dharti ki
maa keshar wali kyari hai
maa ki upma kewal maa hai
maa har ghar ki phulwari hai

Saato sur nartan karte jab
koi maa lori gaati hai
maa jis roti ko chu leti hai
wo prasad ban jati hai
maa hasti hai to dharti ka
jarra-jarra muskata hai
dekho to dur kshtiz ambar
dharti ko sheesh jhukata hai

Mana mere ghar ki deewaro me
chanda si murat hai
par mere man ke mandir me
bas kewal maa ki murat hai
maa saraswati lakshmi durga
ansuya mariyam sita hai
maa pawanta me ramcharit
manas me bhagwat geeta hai

Amma teri har baat mujhe
vardaan se badhkar lagti hai
he Maa teri surat mujhko
bhagwan se badhkar lagti hai
saare teerath ke punya jaha
mai un charno me leta hu
jinke koi santan nahi
mai un maawo ka beta hu

Har ghar me Maa ki puja **
Aisa sankalp uthata hu
Mai dunia ki har maa ke
Charno me ye sheesh jhukata hu.....
Copyright© Shashank K Dwivedi
email-shashankdwivedi.edu@gmail.com
Follow me on Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/skdisro


I am talking of fearlessness

"Fearlessness..."

The same fearlessness
Shown by Christ on the cross

The same fearlessness
Shown by Gandhi
For his non-violence

The same fearlessness
When Mansoor said "I am YOU"
Was lynched & cut piece by piece

The same fearlessness
Of Meera who sang for Krishna on the streets
When she was humiliated, ******, made fun off

The same fearlessness
When Radha danced for Krishna
Even after Krishna left Vrindawan for Dwarka

The same fearlessness
With which Hussaiyn Ali
Martryed his life at Karbala
While trusting someone

The same fearlessness
Of Sita when she withstood
The tests of Rama's accusations

The same fearlessness
When Bahi Taru Singh
suffered governor's brutal torture

The same fearlessness
When Mirziyaan gave his bow & arrow
To Sahibaan knowing that
The tip of his arrow may be blunted
Leading to his death

The same fearlessness
When Romeo drank the poison
And Zuliet stabbed herself with a dagger

The same fearlessness
That made Layla fall sick & died on hearing that
Her Majnun is roaming mad in wilderness;
Later on hearing about Layla's death
Majnun died near Layla's grave

The same fearlessness
When Rabia wanted to
Cease the fire of hell and
Set alight hopes of paradise

The same fearlessness
Of Rumi who guards
The divine light of LOVE

The same fearlessness
When one is compelled by
soul energy to LOVE BELOVEDz

That is the fearlessness
I am talking about

"The fearlessness of LOVE"



Yo, Beremundo el Lelo, surqué todas las rutas
y probé todos los mesteres.
Singlando a la deriva, no en orden cronológico ni lógico -en sin orden-
narraré mis periplos, diré de los empleos con que
nutrí mis ocios,
distraje mi hacer nada y enriquecí mi hastío...;
-hay de ellos otros que me callo-:
Catedrático fui de teosofía y eutrapelia, gimnopedia y teogonía y pansofística en Plafagonia;
barequero en el Porce y el Tigüí, huaquero en el Quindío,
amansador mansueto -no en desuetud aún- de muletos cerriles y de onagros, no sé dónde;
palaciego proto-Maestre de Ceremonias de Wilfredo el Velloso,
de Cunegunda ídem de ídem e ibídem -en femenino- e ídem de ídem de Epila Calunga
y de Efestión -alejandrino- el Glabro;
desfacedor de entuertos, tuertos y malfetrías, y de ellos y ellas facedor;
domeñador de endriagos, unicornios, minotauros, quimeras y licornas y dragones... y de la Gran Bestia.

Fui, de Sind-bad, marinero; pastor de cabras en Sicilia
si de cabriolas en Silesia, de cerdas en Cerdeña y -claro- de corzas en Córcega;
halconero mayor, primer alcotanero de Enguerrando Segundo -el de la Tour-Miracle-;
castrador de colmenas, y no de Casanovas, en el Véneto, ni de Abelardos por el Sequana;
pajecillo de altivas Damas y ariscas Damas y fogosas, en sus castillos
y de pecheras -¡y cuánto!- en sus posadas y mesones
-yo me era Gerineldos de todellas y trovador trovadorante y adorante; como fui tañedor
de chirimía por fiestas candelarias, carbonero con Gustavo Wasa en Dalecarlia, bucinator del Barca Aníbal
y de Scipión el Africano y Masinisa, piloto de Erik el Rojo hasta Vinlandia, y corneta
de un escuadrón de coraceros de Westmannlandia que cargó al lado del Rey de Hielo
-con él pasé a difunto- y en la primera de Lutzen.

Fui preceptor de Diógenes, llamado malamente el Cínico:
huésped de su tonel, además, y portador de su linterna;
condiscípulo y émulo de Baco Dionisos Enófilo, llamado buenamente el Báquico
-y el Dionisíaco, de juro-.

Fui discípulo de Gautama, no tan aprovechado: resulté mal budista, si asaz contemplativo.
Hice de peluquero esquilador siempre al servicio de la gentil Dalilah,
(veces para Sansón, que iba ya para calvo, y -otras- depilador de sus de ella óptimas partes)
y de maestro de danzar y de besar de Salomé: no era el plato de argento,
mas sí de litargirio sus caderas y muslos y de azogue también su vientre auri-rizado;
de Judith de Betulia fui confidente y ni infidente, y -con derecho a sucesión- teniente y no lugarteniente
de Holofernes no Enófobo (ni enófobos Judith ni yo, si con mesura, cautos).
Fui entrenador (no estrenador) de Aspasia y Mesalina y de Popea y de María de Mágdalo
e Inés Sorel, y marmitón y pinche de cocina de Gargantúa
-Pantagruel era huésped no nada nominal: ya suficientemente pantagruélico-.
Fui fabricante de batutas, quebrador de hemistiquios, requebrador de Eustaquias, y tratante en viragos
y en sáficas -algunas de ellas adónicas- y en pínnicas -una de ellas super-fémina-:
la dejé para mí, si luego ancló en casorio.
A la rayuela jugué con Fulvia; antes, con Palamedes, axedrez, y, en época vecina, con Philidor, a los escaques;
y, a las damas, con Damas de alto y bajo coturno
-manera de decir: que para el juego en litis las Damas suelen ir descalzas
y se eliden las calzas y sustentadores -no funcionales- en las Damas y las calzas en los varones.

Tañí el rabel o la viola de amor -casa de Bach, búrguesa- en la primicia
de La Cantata del Café (pre-estreno, en familia protestante, privado).
Le piqué caña jorobeta al caballo de Atila
-que era un morcillo de prócer alzada: me refiero al corcel-;
cambié ideas, a la par, con Incitato, Cónsul de Calígula, y con Babieca,
-que andaba en Babia-, dándole prima
fui zapatero de viejo de Berta la del gran pie (buen pie, mejor coyuntura),
de la Reina Patoja ortopedista; y hortelano y miniaturista de Pepino el Breve,
y copero mayor faraónico de Pepe Botellas, interino,
y porta-capas del Pepe Bellotas de la esposa de Putifar.

Viajé con Julio Verne y Odiseo, Magallanes y Pigafetta, Salgan, Leo e Ibn-Batuta,
con Melville y Stevenson, Fernando González y Conrad y Sir John de Mandeville y Marco Polo,
y sólo, sin De Maistre, alredor de mi biblioteca, de mi oploteca, mi mecanoteca y mi pinacoteca.
Viajé también en tomo de mí mismo: asno a la vez que noria.

Fui degollado en la de San Bartolomé (post facto): secundaba a La Môle:
Margarita de Valois no era total, íntegramente pelirroja
-y no porque de noche todos los gatos son pardos...: la leoparda,
las tres veces internas, íntimas, peli-endrina,
Margarita, Margotón, Margot, la casqui-fulva...-

No estuve en la nea nao -arcaica- de Noé, por manera
-por ventura, otrosí- que no fui la paloma ni la medusa de esa almadía: mas sí tuve a mi encargo
la selección de los racimos de sus viñedos, al pie del Ararat, al post-Diluvio,
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Fui topógrafo ad-hoc entre El Cangrejo y Purcoy Niverengo,
(y ad-ínterim, administré la zona bolombólica:
mucho de anís, mucho de Rosas del Cauca, versos de vez en cuando),
y fui remero -el segundo a babor- de la canoa, de la piragua
La Margarita (criolla), que navegó fluvial entre Comiá, La Herradura, El Morito,
con cargamentos de contrabando: blancas y endrinas de Guaca, Titiribí y Amagá, y destilados
de Concordia y Betulia y de Urrao...
¡Urrao! ¡Urrao! (hasta hace poco lo diríamos con harta mayor razón y con aquese y este júbilos).
Tras de remero de bajel -y piloto- pasé a condueño, co-editor, co-autor
(no Coadjutor... ¡ni de Retz!) en asocio de Matías Aldecoa, vascuence, (y de un tal Gaspar von der Nacht)
de un Libraco o Librículo de pseudo-poemas de otro quídam;
exploré la región de Zuyaxiwevo con Sergio Stepánovich Stepansky,
lobo de donde se infiere, y, en más, ario.

Fui consejero áulico de Bogislao, en la corte margravina de Xa-Netupiromba
y en la de Aglaya crisostómica, óptima circezuela, traidorcilla;
tañedor de laúd, otra vez, y de viola de gamba y de recorder,
de sacabuche, otrosí (de dulzaina - otronó) y en casaciones y serenatas y albadas muy especializado.
No es cierto que yo fuera -es impostura-
revendedor de bulas (y de mulas) y tragador defuego y engullidor de sables y bufón en las ferias
pero sí platiqué (también) con el asno de Buridán y Buridán,
y con la mula de Balaám y Balaám, con Rocinante y Clavileño y con el Rucio
-y el Manco y Sancho y don Quijote-
y trafiqué en ultramarinos: ¡qué calamares -en su tinta-!,
¡qué Anisados de Guarne!, ¡qué Rones de Jamaica!, ¡qué Vodkas de Kazán!, ¡qué Tequilas de México!,
¡qué Néctares de Heliconia! ¡Morcillas de Itagüí! ¡Torreznos de Envigado! ¡Chorizos de los Ballkanes! ¡Qué Butifarras cataláunicas!
Estuve en Narva y en Pultawa y en las Queseras del Medio, en Chorros Blancos
y en El Santuario de Córdova, y casi en la de San Quintín
(como pugnaban en el mismo bando no combatí junto a Egmont por no estar cerca al de Alba;
a Cayetana sí le anduve cerca tiempo después: preguntádselo a Goya);
no llegué a tiempo a Waterloo: me distraje en la ruta
con Ida de Saint-Elme, Elselina Vanayl de Yongh, viuda del Grande Ejército (desde antaño... más tarde)
y por entonces y desde años antes bravo Edecán de Ney-:
Ayudante de Campo... de plumas, gongorino.
No estuve en Capua, pero ya me supongo sus mentadas delicias.

Fabriqué clavicémbalos y espinetas, restauré virginales, reparé Stradivarius
falsos y Guarnerius apócrifos y Amatis quasi Amatis.
Cincelé empuñaduras de dagas y verduguillos, en el obrador de Benvenuto,
y escriños y joyeles y guardapelos ad-usum de Cardenales y de las Cardenalesas.
Vendí Biblias en el Sinú, con De la Rosa, Borelly y el ex-pastor Antolín.
Fui catador de tequila (debuté en Tapachula y ad-látere de Ciro el Ofiuco)
y en México y Amecameca, y de mezcal en Teotihuacán y Cuernavaca,
de Pisco-sauer en Lima de los Reyes,
y de otros piscolabis y filtros muy antes y después y por Aná del Aburrá, y doquiérase
con El Tarasco y una legión de Bacos Dionisos, pares entre Pares.
Vagué y vagué si divagué por las mesillas del café nocharniego, Mil Noches y otra Noche
con el Mago de lápiz buido y de la voz asordinada.
Antes, muy antes, bebí con él, con Emmanuel y don Efe y Carrasca, con Tisaza y Xovica y Mexía y los otros Panidas.
Después..., ahora..., mejor no meneallo y sí escanciallo y persistir en ello...

Dicté un curso de Cabalística y otro de Pan-Hermética
y un tercero de Heráldica,
fuera de los cursillos de verano de las literaturas bereberes -comparadas-.
Fui catalogador protonotario en jefe de la Magna Biblioteca de Ebenezer el Sefardita,
y -en segundo- de la Mínima Discoteca del quídam en referencia de suso:
no tenía aún las Diabelli si era ya dueño de las Goldberg;
no poseía completa la Inconclusa ni inconclusa la Décima (aquestas Sinfonías, Variaciones aquesas:
y casi que todello -en altísimo rango- tan Variaciones Alredor de Nada).

Corregí pruebas (y dislates) de tres docenas de sota-poetas
-o similares- (de los que hinchen gacetilleros a toma y daca).
Fui probador de calzas -¿prietas?: ceñidas, sí, en todo caso- de Diana de Meridor
y de justillos, que así veníanle, de estar atán bien provista
y atán rebién dotada -como sabíalo también y así de bien Bussy d'Amboise-.
Temperé virginales -ya restaurados-, y clavecines, si no como Isabel, y aunque no tan baqueano
como ése de Eisenach, arroyo-Océano.
Soplé el ***** bufón, con tal cual incongruencia, sin ni tal cual donaire.
No aporreé el bombo, empero, ni entrechoqué los címbalos.

Les saqué puntas y les puse ribetes y garambainas a los vocablos,
cuando diérame por la Semasiología, cierta vez, en la Sorbona de Abdera,
sita por Babia, al pie de los de Úbeda, que serán cerros si no valen por Monserrates,
sin cencerros. Perseveré harto poco en la Semántica -por esa vez-,
si, luego retorné a la andadas, pero a la diabla, en broma:
semanto-semasiólogo tarambana pillín pirueteante.
Quien pugnó en Dénnevitz con Ney, el peli-fulvo
no fui yo: lo fue mi bisabuelo el Capitán...;
y fue mi tatarabuelo quien apresó a Gustavo Cuarto:
pero sí estuve yo en la Retirada de los Diez Mil
-era yo el Siete Mil Setecientos y Setenta y Siete,
precisamente-: releed, si dudaislo, el Anábasis.
Fui celador intocable de la Casa de Tócame-Roque, -si ignoré cuyo el Roque sería-,
y de la Casa del Gato-que-pelotea; le busqué tres pies al gato
con botas, que ya tenía siete vidas y logré dar con siete autores en busca de un personaje
-como quien dice Los Siete contra Tebas: ¡pobre Tebas!-, y ya es jugar bastante con el siete.
No pude dar con la cuadratura del círculo, que -por lo demás- para nada hace falta,
mas topé y en el Cuarto de San Alejo, con la palanca de Arquimedes y con la espada de Damocles,
ambas a dos, y a cual más, tomadas del orín y con más moho
que las ideas de yo si sé quién mas no lo digo:
púsome en aprietos tal doble hallazgo; por más que dije: ¡Eureka! ...: la palanca ya no servía ni para levantar un falso testimonio,
y tuve que encargarme de tener siempre en suspenso y sobre mí la espada susodicha.

Se me extravió el anillo de Saturno, mas no el de Giges ni menos el de Hans Carvel;
no sé qué se me ficieron los Infantes de Aragón y las Nieves de Antaño y el León de Androcles y la Balanza
del buen Shylock: deben estar por ahí con la Linterna de Diógenes:
-¿mas cómo hallarlos sin la linterna?

No saqué el pecho fuera, ni he sido nunca el Tajo, ni me di cuenta del lío de Florinda,
ni de por qué el Tajo el pecho fuera le sacaba a la Cava,
pero sí vi al otro don Rodrigo en la Horca.
Pinté muestras de posadas y mesones y ventas y paradores y pulquerías
en Veracruz y Tamalameque y Cancán y Talara, y de riendas de abarrotes en Cartagena de Indias, con Tisaza-,
si no desnarigué al de Heredia ni a López **** tuerto -que era bizco-.
Pastoreé (otra vez) el Rebaño de las Pléyades
y resultaron ser -todellas, una a una- ¡qué capretinas locas!
Fui aceitero de la alcuza favorita del Padre de los Búhos Estáticos:
-era un Búho Sofista, socarrón soslayado, bululador mixtificante-.
Regí el vestier de gala de los Pingüinos Peripatéticos,
(precursores de Brummel y del barón d'Orsay,
por fuera de filósofos, filosofículos, filosofantes dromomaníacos)
y apacenté el Bestiario de Orfeo (delegatario de Apollinaire),
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Nada tuve que ver con el asesinato de la hija del corso adónico Sebastiani
ni con ella (digo como pesquisidor, pesquisante o pesquisa)
si bien asesoré a Edgar Allan Poe como entomólogo, cuando El Escarabajo de Oro,
y en su investigación del Doble Asesinato de la Rue Morgue,
ya como experto en huellas dactilares o quier digitalinas.
Alguna vez me dio por beberme los vientos o por pugnar con ellos -como Carolus
Baldelarius- y por tomar a las o las de Villadiego o a las sus calzas:
aquesas me resultaron harto potables -ya sin calzas-; ellos, de mucho volumen
y de asaz poco cuerpo (si asimilados a líquidos, si como justadores).
Gocé de pingües canonjías en el reinado del bonachón de Dagoberto,
de opíparas prebendas, encomiendas, capellanías y granjerías en el del Rey de los Dipsodas,
y de dulce privanza en el de doña Urraca
(que no es la Gazza Ladra de Rossini, si fuéralo
de corazones o de amantes o favoritos o privados o martelos).

Fui muy alto cantor, como bajo cantante, en la Capilla de los Serapiones
(donde no se sopranizaba...); conservador,
conservador -pero poco- de Incunables, en la Alejandrina de Panida,
(con sucursal en El Globo y filiales en el Cuarto del Búho).

Hice de Gaspar Hauser por diez y seis hebdémeros
y por otras tantas semanas y tres días fui la sombra,
la sombra misma que se le extravió a Peter Schlémil.

Fui el mozo -mozo de estribo- de la Reina Cristina de Suecia
y en ciertas ocasiones también el de Ebba Sparre.
Fui el mozo -mozo de estoques- de la Duquesa de Chaumont
(que era de armas tomar y de cálida sélvula): con ella pus mi pica en Flandes
-sobre holandas-.

Fui escriba de Samuel Pepys -¡qué escabroso su Diario!-
y sustituto suyo como edecán adjunto de su celosa cónyuge.
Y fuí copista de Milton (un poco largo su Paraíso Perdido,
magüer perdido en buena parte: le suprimí no pocos Cantos)
y a la su vera reencontré mi Paraíso (si el poeta era
ciego; -¡qué ojazos los de su Déborah!).

Fui traductor de cablegramas del magnífico Jerjes;
telefonista de Artajerjes el Tartajoso; locutor de la Esfinge
y confidente de su secreto; ventrílocuo de Darío Tercero Codomano el Multilocuo,
que hablaba hasta por los codos;
altoparlante retransmisor de Eubolio el Mudo, yerno de Tácito y su discípulo
y su émulo; caracola del mar océano eólico ecolálico y el intérprete
de Luis Segundo el Tartamudo -padre de Carlos el Simple y Rey de Gaula.
Hice de andante caballero a la diestra del Invencible Policisne de Beocia
y a la siniestra del Campeón olímpico Tirante el Blanco, tirante al blanco:
donde ponía el ojo clavaba su virote;
y a la zaga de la fogosa Bradamante, guardándole la espalda
-manera de decir-
y a la vanguardia, mas dándole la cara, de la tierna Marfisa...

Fui amanuense al servicio de Ambrosio Calepino
y del Tostado y deMatías Aldecoa y del que urdió el Mahabarata;
fui -y soylo aún, no zoilo- graduado experto en Lugares Comunes
discípulo de Leon Bloy y de quien escribió sobre los Diurnales.
Crucigramista interimario, logogrifario ad-valorem y ad-placerem
de Cleopatra: cultivador de sus brunos pitones y pastor de sus áspides,
y criptogramatista kinesiólogo suyo y de la venus Calipigia, ¡viento en popa a toda vela!
Fui tenedor malogrado y aburrido de libros de banca,
tenedor del tridente de Neptuno,
tenedor de librejos -en los bolsillos del gabán (sin gabán) collinesco-,
y de cuadernículos -quier azules- bajo el ala.
Sostenedor de tesis y de antítesis y de síntesis sin sustentáculo.
Mantenedor -a base de abstinencias- de los Juegos Florales
y sostén de los Frutales -leche y miel y cerezas- sin ayuno.
Porta-alfanje de Harún-al-Rashid, porta-mandoble de Mandricardo el Mandria,
porta-martillo de Carlos Martel,
porta-fendiente de Roldán, porta-tajante de Oliveros, porta-gumía
de Fierabrás, porta-laaza de Lanzarote (¡ búen Lancelot tan dado a su Ginevra!)
y a la del Rey Artús, de la Ca... de la Mesa Redonda...;
porta-lámpara de Al-Eddin, el Loca Suerte, y guardián y cerbero de su anillo
y del de los Nibelungos: pero nunca guardián de serrallo ni cancerbero ni evirato de harem...
Y fui el Quinto de los Tres Mosqueteros (no hay quinto peor) -veinte años después-.

Y Faraute de Juan Sin Tierra y fiduciario de
Madonna Suchak Oct 2016
I had always heard that festivals are symbols of joy,symbols of happiness.
but I think more than that it is feeling o f peace,prosperity,love,kindness it is the only time when everyone in our society have get together,follow rituals and the most interesting part is the broken relationships,friendships & every other relations get adhere together.
friends i always thought that festivals means only having holidays and enjoying it but today i came to know that every festival has its own story like Christmas for birth of lord Christ,
Diwali for returning of lord Rama and goddess Sita.




on the occassion of DEEPAVALI I wish everyone HAPPY DEEPAVALI and may this diwali bring prosperity,Elation,peace in your life!!!!
#ELATED##PEACE#
LLZ Sep 2020
Nahi chahiye sobhagay aisa,
Jisme rukmini Krishna ki patrani ban gayi.

Nahi karna tap mujhe,
Jaise Parvati shiv ki ardhangini ban gayi.

Aur nahi bana aise ,
Raam ki sita Jo apne,
Pavitrata ke liye ,
Aag me jalke ,
Mitti se Pani ban gayi.

Likh apne pyaar ki adhuri si kahani ,
Jaise ek priye ban gayi apne saaware ki diwani ,
Ha ,
Mujhe bhi bana h vo Radha
Jo apne pyaar Mei,
Radha se Krishna ki
RADHA RANI
Ban gayi!
Radhe radhe,radhe Krishna!
kiran goswami May 2020
They tell me to stick to my roots
because roots lead up to shoots.
They tell me to stick to my origin
unaware of how it acts as a prison,
My roots are Draupadi's hair that was twisted and lugged,
my roots are Panchali's saree that was tugged.
My roots are Sita's wrist Ravana wrested,
my roots are where Ahalya's chastity rested.
My roots are parasites that eat up its own herb and ****,
my roots are rat snakes that eat up its own tissue and meat.
My roots are flames of fire that created and watered the plant of Sati,
my roots are pools of blood and long ropes that drowned and hanged LaxmiBai and Moolmati.
My roots are the dish misogyny flavoured with patriarchy,
my roots are naked streams of Ganga washing off their lynching and anarchy.
My roots are all the poison Shiva drank during the churning of the sea,
my roots are Dhritrashtra's aspirations and ambiguity.
My roots are its own herbivore,
my roots are the lava that burns its own floor.
And my roots are my flesh and bone,
so I am stitched to my roots altogether, all alone.
So as I cut my own roots, my roots chop me,
hence I stick to my roots while my roots remain free.
Irene Wangai May 2019
Hii life ni ya kuhustle,  
                                                                               alikuja kugundua that,
                                                             ile night alijimess kwa disco hall,
                                         ma-hustlers kwake walikuwa ni masufferes,
                                          na yeye kivyake alikuwa mtu wamastarehe,
                                                                         Easy money without pain,
                                                                                    na juu ya ignorance,
                                                                                     hakutambua kuwa,
                                                                                           no pain no gain,
                                                                                                    ama labda,
                                                                     aliogopa the pain ya kugain,
                                                legally according to the law of her body,
                                                                  juu alikuwa after easy money,
                           na hakutambua kuwa hii pain ingetake long kuheal,
                                                                                    Asiyesikia la mkuu,
                                                                                            huvunjika guu,
                                                                                 Walijaribu kumfunza,
                                                                                 wavyele kwa walimu,
  Lakini maneno yao yalienea kwa sikio la kufa ambalo mara nyingi
                                                                                              halisikii dawa,
                        Life yake ilikuwa surrounded na pressure from peers,
                                                                 Drugs alizimeza na kujipierce,
                           Malimwengu walimfunza machungu na ma regrets,
                                                                          juu ya  mama aliyapuuza,
                                                      Alijiona msupuu sana kuattract pesa,
                                                            coz, si pesa huvutiwa na urembo,
                                                                                                      All in all,,
                         urembo wake na kuremba kwake kulimlead to waste,
                                                                                          na akawa waste,
                                   Alikuwa anafuatwa na wengi juu ya manukato,
                                                                                                        but sasa,
                                   anahave kufuatwa na nzi wengi juu ya ******,
                                                                       Alicome back to her senses,
                                                                                           ongezea ya sita,
                                                            after kujimess hiyo night saa sita,
                                                 Na juu alikuwa amejawa na ma regrets,
                                           pain ilikuwa more na too deep in her flesh,
                                                                Akaanza kujifeel less fortunate,
                                                                        hakujua pakupata msaada,
                                                                                                                coz,
                                                 alidis maarif wake ile time alijifeel high,
                                                so high ungedhani amepita limit ya sky,
                                                                            But one thing is for sure,
                          angehave kuget back on her feet, a get from her seat,
                                                                                          ya comfort zone,
                                                              Akaamua kurudi to her first life,
                                                       Aweke maringo na kuremba kwake,
                                                                                             to her last line,
                                                                                 Na her life her hustle,
                                 Aliamua kuchukua her hustle to the second line,
                                                              Christ akiwa on the leading line.
Hello guys, hope you don't mind the language mixture too much,, coz actually,,
the language is known as sheng, and its a mix of English and Swahili languages,,, so if you have no gasp of Swahili language,, its a good start to try it out. please, to Swahili sanifu speakers, please pardon me for today
Meera Mar 2018
I don't have the strength of durga
Neither I have the wealth of lakshmi
Nor the purity of parvati
I ain't selfless like sita
I don't have the heart to love like radha
Don't expect me to be a saviour like savitri
Cause am weak
I am poor
I am impure
I have scars
I am flawed
I am selfish
I am imperfect
I am just an ordinary woman
Don't worship me
Just let me be
Durga, lakhshmi, parvati, sita, radha and savitri are the characters of hindu mythology known for their strength, wealth, wisdom, loyalty, love, selflessness, loyalty and purity. Women in India are often considered as the incarnations of these characters.
Who knew.

I didn’t actually have to be blonde to have more fun, with all love to blonde women everywhere.

Holding onto my life, just as I did in that small raft on the River Ganges, while Ma Gangas was as doing all she could to ****** me into the rapids and keep me for herself forever,, I had to learn patience, and I did.

I held on early on when one disease and then another went after my tiny body, starting 10 days after I was born.

It didn’t matter.

I was here and right away I saw and felt this beautiful world all around me with a quiet intensity that field every sense, every cell in my body.
Copyrighted by Elisa Maria Argiro, 11 November, 2020, Maharishi Vedic City, America, Earth
ConnectHook Apr 2016
ክብረ ነገሥት

Oh Sovereign of wisdom Solomonic,
forgive us. The wicked wax demonic.
Golden vessels fill with foulness
man is bankrupt, sold and soulless
Unsettling harbingers loom dystopian.
Sheba rises in dreams Ethiopian.


Tested with questions, her spirit once gone,
occultic suggestions postponed her dawn.
(Six-hundred and sixty-six talents of gold
paid Nineveh’s rise as Messiah foretold.
Go read it in Matthew, obstinate sinner
You think He intends to have Satan the winner?)
Her ruins now surveyed by satellite
beheld on the screens of the Canaanite:
canals to expose, southern deserts to cross,
Eritrean legends of Prophet (and loss),
the Ark of King Menelik—Kebra Negast,
treasures of darkness presented, now past
have us checking those texts that worldlings despise
as we wait under dread Luciferian skies.

Break the sixth seal of the seventh scroll;
let the thirteenth angel spill the bowl !
(or smoke it up in the courts of Heaven
till *****’s infinitude totals seven…)
Exhume Axum with the ****** of Marib.
decode the encryption on Adam’s rib
unearthed from some Antediluvian ravine—
Blast from the past: she explodes on our scene!
Seven oaths shall be sworn on her spectral beauty
(our Biblical transcendental duty).
The libation is mixed. Are we ready to swill it?
Beersheba? She brew ! Let us rise to fulfill it.
from sita to Saba fifth columns are ready:
Oh Sovereign — render their pillars unsteady.
For after explosions there’s mess to clean up,
and it’s worse than the horrors inside of her cup.
ክብረ ነገሥት
a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016
www.connecthook.wordpress.com
I want movies of Ava Cherry with no clothes on, lounging softly &
luridly, pulling me with Afro curly-cues on a **** trimmed torridly
as cool chick Sita Chan flies over a Hong Kong bridge discordantly
when Sita asked Rama
to get her the golden deer
what did she actually want?

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
24.12.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
To Mr Arnav Gupta,
Forgive me bhai, your embers are still
fanned alive in my memories you are
still walking in circles in Ellipse Park

Dear Mr Gupta,
Do you know what distance a flame can travel on a summer day?
How far the flame travels in the camera frame, how long it keeps?
Your flame ephemeral everlasting still walking still wake
Purians pyres that covered brown bodies in 1687

Dear Arnav,
Do you remember when Sita sat in her Agni Praskar in Ramayana?
How women still throw themselves in their husband’s funeral?
What were you trying to purify through the seven flames?
Ankit Mohanty Oct 2017
We're found to be cut off but not long ago!
Some burn us with sparklers
and we get modulated as flames in a flash
by yielding fire flowers to your night sky
And you numskulls think that we die.

Some sculp us with molten cruelty as symbol of mockery.
It's Good enough that we we're just called as devils.

But what about those bed evils
Who attack upon on lassies
With the holler word called “babies”
To accomplish their own seductive urge.

What about those drunken buffoons
In those paved streets under the feeble streetlights stalking the fragile once either for fun or for a wrong intention.

What about the brute
twice the age of his married daughter
bites into the soul of a maiden.
Spitting the venomous words
and incapacitates the heart
Numbness spreads all over her body
after the spiteful attack.

For heaven's sake
Don't point your fingers on us
We're better than you

I being Ravan,
The biggest devotee of lord Siva
And had an extremely loyal wife like Mandodari
Been burned with ten heads
For just  kidnapping Sita
Whereas I returned her with due respect.
But these days people use women like toys
by fulfilling their joys.

And Mahishasura,
Who could worship so hard to impress three lords
was eventually killed by Durga and could meet the death by hands of powerful women.
But these days people **** the female child before birth
thinking daughters as burden on earth.

If still you don't get atonement
Just think this poem as a complement
And just think how better are we as your opponent.
May the whole world call us demon or devil
But first learn to tackle the inner evil.
If possible put pins and needle
to such people
Then the world will be in next level.
nanimono Aug 2017
I don't want to be like ravana

Who always looking for vedavati figure

Never tired searching for a figure who isn't exist anymore in the world

Although vedavati as a body has long gone in the world

But her soul is immortal

Immortal in the niches and minds of ravana

Her name will be eternal in his soul

Either ravana can't forget her

Or

Indeed himself who doesn't want to forget her

Maybe it's too divine to forget her beauty

His real love doesn't belongs to Citrawati, Kausalya, Mandodari, and not also Sita

They just a similar figure to vedavati

His eternal love belongs to vedavati
A woman is flower bed on earth
Every flower bloom in it
Never dry up its floral
No matter how much weather cruel
Whenever weather is harsh
She puts double effort to nourish
She has flexible body
Same is her views for everybody
She takes on every hardness
With her flexibility
And bends the world always
by her character of Sita
Tara and Draupadi
Today the mind is upset
Coz time for a mom is bad
I'm sure she will win
She defeats every evil
She is frustrated
But never hopeless .
kiran goswami May 2019
My mother has been reminding me of things,
since I was 4,
and the school started giving homework.

She reminded me of
the notebooks I needed to take,
the drawing  I needed to make.
the exams and competitions coming,
the girl, I thought I was becoming.
The answers I needed to remember,
there are 31 August 30 September.
the handkerchief I must never forget to bring home back,
the books that needed to be kept when my bag when I used to pack.
The words 'harsh' and 'cruel' that I should never speak,
Gods and mythology all Indian and Greek.
The way I should sit and walk and behave,
the Queen's like Lakshmibai to tell me even I am brave.
The lights that needed to be turned off and to shut the doors,
to be careful while painting and not let the colours spill on the floor.

My mother still reminds me of things,
now I am 17 and school still gives homework.

she reminds me of
The lakes that a deeper than a sea,
the Queen's like Lakshmibai and Sita because that's how I want to be.
The kingdom that flourished, the kingdoms that vanished,
the dream she lost and her words that were banished.
Herself, who is  like the bank that is washed by the soft Ganga waves,
Her sandy words that grow roses and sunflowers and then dig their own Graves,
The stars that are lonely and yet together,
the places where people go to find themselves in pleasant weather.
The handkerchief that I must never forget and bring home back
the books that I need to keep in my bag when I pack.
The lights that need to be turned off and to shut the doors,
to be careful while painting and not let the colour spill on the floor.
The prayer and the love that she carries in her eyes,
the hope and the faith that she tells me, 'never die'.

My mother still reminds me of things.
Ashwin Kumar Sep 2023
Your smile is like a drop of honey
Your laugh is like a Resurrection Stone
Because it can bring people back from the dead
Your voice is like one of the symphonies composed by Beethoven
If looks could ****
I would probably be dead by now
If I were to make eye contact with you, that is!
Hey, I was just kidding!!
But yes, your glare is so intense
That it can even force Lord Voldemort
To fall at your feet
And beg for mercy
Thus giving him a taste of his own medicine!!!
Your expressions keep changing
Like the colours of a chameleon
If someone were to wake you up
In the middle of the night
And force you to act
You would do it as naturally
As flying comes to Harry Potter
Yet, in spite of all the fame and glamour in your life
You are as humble as Michael Faraday
With a heart as pure as that of Goddess Sita
Again just kidding, you are as human as I am
Only infinitely more beautiful
From the outside as well as from the inside
And I am extremely thankful to you
Not only for your movies
But also for inspiring me to write better poetry
In a way that even William Wordsworth wouldn't have been able to pull off!!!
Dedicated to my all-time favourite filmstar - actress Aishwarya Lekshmi
JP May 2017
The epics
Says
to have a woman
like Sita
in your life
first
You live like Rama..
When I'm hemorrhaging a lot, I use wadded-up cloth for staunching
blood, then I puke in Walmart's parking lot when no one's watching

— The End —