"sitar" poems
I want to be your guitar
Run your fingers over my fret board
Pluck my strings and give me my melodious avatar
Sing to me and play that major chord
I’m feeling your song through and through
You don’t need a plectrum, you’re a born original
Work your rhythm baby, let’s get on the groove
Your fingers are enough to create our music wholly attritional
I will reward you myself for how you release my tension
I will resonate our love song through longevity
You’re a prodigal performer, I can feel you in tune with locomotion
We will move from verse to chorus under no shadow of ambiguity
I want to be your guitar
Let my moans reverberate off your walls
A finer touch for our creativity – a sitar
Let’s Indioul our way through these musical waterfalls
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
तत् त्वम् असि
*for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons,
washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo*
(*the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute*)
Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the ***** water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots
Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight
Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day
Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.
Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now –
drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.
Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman –
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
THE MORAL:
(slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp)
Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.
“This is God –worship Him, worship Him –
this is God – let us worship Him now…”
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
My brother, Jake,
He had what it takes;
Shaved when he was eight,
Strong as a boa snake.
He had hair
Like Ringo Starr,
But played guitar
Like Ravi on sitar.
My brother, Jake,
He grew to six foot eight;
He had arms like legs,
Muscles like beer kegs.
He was fast,
With a ball,
His speed could do it all.
And he could speak,
Like a priest,
He kept us all enthralled.
His wit,
It was quick,
And sharp as a paring knife:
He was funny,
He was cruel,
And well thought of at school.
My brother, Jake,
Had a running streak
Up his back,
At the sign
Of any trouble,
He left on the double,
That's my brother, Jake.
So you see,
As I see,
Size is allegory.
Jake's stature
May bring rapture,
But he's a little man to me.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
If you love your land
then say ever,
"whether I live or not
this nation should live on"
If you love your land
then say ever,
"whether I live or not
this nation should live on"
And this after my time
shall live on,
"whether I live or not
this nation should live on"
Rip my veins open and
string them in a sitar,
and play the song of the nation
plucking again and again:
this love for the land
should well-over in the eyes,
"Whether I live or not
this nation should live on;"
Let the enemy be warned,
learn not to breach limits,
this my nation is eternal:
learn this truth be told!
Let the lustre of this devotion
shine vivified,
"whether I live or not
this nation should live on"
This be my pledge o nation,
pledge, o nation, this be mine:
may I forget thee not
for a moment even,
every drop that
courses in my veins
is yours this blood, and here
I offer what is ever yours;
This is a war for honour,
pride be high,
"whether I live or not
this nation should live on
whether I live or not
this nation should live on
whether I live or not
this nation should live on"
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC
Gilhooley had ordered a meeting
Everyone had to come round
St. Patricks day will be upon us
And a venue just has to be found
We have to find somewhere authentic
Our normal old pub just won't do
We can't celebrate with the punters
Where the beer isn't green, it's dyed blue
Gilhooley awaited suggestions
It had to be somewhere close by
There were all sorts of names on the table
So they decided to give them a try
It needed to be "somewhat old Irish"
with no dee jay, and a folky type band
they had to have red headed women
And a barman, with drinks poured and at hand
The first place they went was McKenna's
It seemed like a great place at first
but the service was slower than treacle
and a man would just die here of thirst
They found one that looked rather Irish
It was known as the new *** of gold
it had a rainbow outside on the awning
this should have been a warning fortold
the next one they tried was a classic
The green and gold tavern....a hit
but, it was booked on the day for a party
and this didn't please them one bit
they finally found one to their liking
full of guineess and pretty colleens
a punjabi bar by the name of ben doury's
where everything was curried and green
it was a party that no one remembered
that meant that it must have been good
nobody went to the jailhouse
even though three or four of them should
The beer and the curry were epic
the singing was like nothing we'd heard
a sitar and cymbal based trio
played so loud that nothing was heard
Gilhooley said next year we have to
come back here and do it again
It was the best St. Patty's ever
most of them passed out by ten
The next time you go out to party
call Ben Doury, the place is spot on
the food and the beer are one colour
with a Punjabi Mumbai Leprachaun
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
I can hear the Band of Gypsys
When I find her sitar eyes
But I can guess what she sees
With her moist mouth jarring wide
******* clouds from the sky
Hoodoo Voodoo Medicine Girl
In a thunderstorm of dirt stained pearls
Tranquillity is everything
As we all float down to hear her sing
And she knows full well
That she can pollinate anything
Simply without the need to sting
The half mast will be put in place
As your heart's pump gathers in pace
If you're anticipating to catch her near
Don't act surprised if you're left to persevere
When you finally catch a glimpse
Things won't quite be as they appear
She'll be floating in the stratosphere
Soaring high with no fear
Cos if you did not know
The Hoodoo Voodoo Medicine Girl
Burns on the fuel of your fresh tears.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
time runs backwards
what is fast is deemed slow i motion situs
mon river flow
out of notion soul
and into the empty pools
so shalt the water rise
deserts no more
but ponds o hexagonal 5 pouted stars
as universes collide
other must die
there is no choice but freedoms reins
ring those bells
the chichi tolls
on sacred soil they were built
and energetic pathways meet at meeting points no less
are the beggars than the high class hookers ( thieves)
smokes
from the cattiplliers lips are but clouds on distant horizons
jasmine juice
electronic sitar
to the waning moon glow
dip
hose
MUTHfuckin sails mate
where is the *** in my tummy tum tum
note please:
he french resistance
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
salt stings soldiered eyes streaming
i am not crying —
just releasing a weekend of wine and Netflix,
a relapse i can't admit
when people ask what I did last weekend.
Muscles burning in the agony,
their capability
long squandered,
by lazy nights and wine.
Monkey mind zombied to flashes of LED light.
Docile strides to somewhere I have to be.
oh TV, you are so tempting to a binger like me.
I think about the last episode
when I should think about the road,
leading to my forgotten sanctuary,
where limbs stretch, teachers chant krishna
and rub students with essential oils.
But as I listen to the
sitar in shavasana,
interrupted
by iPhone rings,
teacher grasps the money
from the donation box greedily.
I feel slightly annoyed,
but mostly pity —
three students
thirty five dollars
for an hour.
But I think
this is what happens when
yoga becomes a
commodity.
Like TV — a fix,
not a spiritual experience.
So we'll pay the minimum,
or stream it illegally.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
What rhymes with love?
Can I **** and say dove?
then you say a word "Camera",
Now I'm thinking to ride a Chimera!
Common is the guitar,
now you want to play a Sitar,
as you watch movies with subs,
cute anime overdubs,
Up early as three in the morning,
you notice mosquitos are roaming,
with last night's hangover,
walked clumsy like a moon rover!
I am a person of rhymes,
until you ring those chimes,
Until you hear an angry gerbil,
I love you much ar
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 4:41 AM UTC
.
Silver charms on an anklet ******
as her foot stamps down once,
crossed dainty in front of the other,
and her hands start a slow ascent.
From hips up into the air
in the nonchalant action of the flame,
arcing a half circle about her waist
she turns to face the assembled crowd.
A tabla starts a sleepy beat
and the sitar player awakens,
or returns from a meditation,
readying himself for his introduction,
to blend a melody of the Moon
with the woven movements of dance.
The beat increases and four taps
signal a change in the rhythm.
The following note is punctuated
by the tinkling of the charms
and the first strum of the sitar,
sending music to the starry sky.
And her hips sway in gentle waves
as her hands mimic the lotus flower
in cups of dreams above her head,
and the anklets jangle a soothing sound.
The wrists twist and move graceful,
delightfully twinned with the neck of a swan,
and her body sways like a leaf in the wind
to the melody from ages past.
The tabla starts a frantic beat
as the sitar player lets fly,
his new unrestrained chords
dilute the night with ecstasy.
And she dances in her trance,
skin shining with the dew of reflected joy,
her lithe body telling the story
that began before the dawn of time.
A crescendo summons the dance to end
and silence fills the void,
but far into the deep dark night
silver charms on an anklet ******
© Pagan Paul (01/09/17)
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 7:04 AM UTC
The sunset looks beautiful at twilight,
piercing through the underbelly of clouds,
the sky painting vehement, orange light
against the darkened faces of the crowd.
We listen to the sound of a sitar play
and feel the rapture of the beating drum.
Everything the spirit could want to say
is spoken by the motions fingers strum,
reverberating through the evening air,
and those who move to its smooth harmony.
I hold you close, sway with your gentle care.
True beauty is this rhythm, dancing free,
far from the dissonance a dark world cries,
an orange glow reflected in your eyes.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
A little light leaks through
well-kept shades,
illuminating glitters and ghosts
of smoke from the incense.
The scent is strong,
good sticks from the temple
and it fills any missing spaces
in this cluttered room.
Saraswati's sitar is playing lullabies
that wake my conscience.
My eyes are closed
but I can see the color of your kiss.
And the island I forget to escape to
is floating in the distance,
waiting for us.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
swoosh and swirl i sway
the air convulses and contorts
pouring my limbs from one movement to the next
driving one mad with the slow moving power of the
strings
blow bubbles made of sand
and spill them upon the earth
with a sweet blowing breeze
similar to the chickens upon the ground
made of gold they eat gold
kernels
i am an axis of movement
a slowly rotating turnstile sparkling
in orange light drowning
time out of the hourglass
with the twitch of the inconsiderate wrist
bright red and gold the kernels fall into sifting
sand
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:04 PM UTC
The echo of centuries-
screams of a tortured mind
reverberate through the souls
of a thousand lives.
The sitar strings vibrate
the ecstatic harmony beckons
life surging though them.
In assertion of existence
the sounds drip slowly through
seeping into the pores
of a clairvoyant history.
And the ghosts in the walls
polish their stifled voices
to speak their stories
Memories ooze through cracks
and are trapped in cobwebs.
Truth hides in dark corners
and seeks hellish deliverance.
Vijayalakshmi.R.
12/11/06
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 12:59 AM UTC
"FARE-WELL"
sometimes, is not sensed,
but, stirs like a silent wound
goes on vibrating like the string of "SITAR"*.
**********************
SUN is a naughty gardener
can chat with the dumb bough
can hum the hue of emotions
SUN is a musical dialogue of flowers .
*********************
FARE-WELL
it is always a PAIN
waves becoming static
flowers falling down
sitar hugging silence
it is always a PAIN
********************
pain transforms into a sweet history
yes, to me , a sweet memory
i too like an unknown shell
on the same shore of time
have been breathing his music.
*******************
HE is not HE, now on
an essence of "RAGA"**
silence is the space in sound
that took birth in his blood
is sinking in our blood
*****************
his sitar is the divine mystic piece
his music is the definition of purity of life
HE is a flowing memory
HE is the peacock feather
that i preserved in my c.d. folder !!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
I walked past and I heard
you play the sitar, Kadambari;
and I waited at the side in the streets
as I heard the soothing tunes and the notes
and the playfulness and the pleas and eloquence
and the pain and the joys and the ecstasy
O I heard the coming to of each note and raga
and I heard each improvisation
and I stood at the gate, hidden behind the green vines
not allowed in, always the outsider
always left outside, marked by clear boundaries;
but I heard each turn and each leap and fall
and I saw you in all your beauty, Kadambari
I saw you in my mind as I stood outside
and I heard each note
as you offered each note to Kama, the Love God
Kama with his bow and arrow of flowers;
and the jasmine plants around me bloomed
and the trees in the street and the vines over the wall
they all bloomed, as you played, O Kadambari -
and so did my being, so did my being open like the sunflower
so it did, as you, O Kadambari,
as you had your fingers on your sitar
as you made music
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 2:38 AM UTC
while you were sleeping,
stars stepped out to dance,
trees whistled a tune with the wind,
river shimmered a firefly glow,
sheet of grass blades spread cool,
street mongrels howled a love ballad,
cat clawed a tune on the guitar,
the late Ravi Shankar plucked
divine on his ghostly sitar...
while you were sleeping,
world made a blanket of clouds,
crown of a dozen sunflowers
ii
while you were sleeping
I delved out of this dream
and finally opened my eyes,
saw illusions on angel wings,
mermaids celestially sing of
beauty's imprisoning knots,
dazed world of impossibilities,
eternal bewitchment, disparities,
all afire in new unbiased light,
it is the puzzle that binds you,
not its swab drab culmination,
a loop threading in forever land,
iii
while you were sleeping
I fled the valley, the valley
of hatred, fear, the blind,
while you were sleeping
while you were sleeping
while you were sleeping
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 8:41 AM UTC
Like placing a Sitar
I placed you with care,
On my lap I dare,
On my lap, till I fell asleep.
My fingers ran over those dots
Came to know the plots
As I felt my cracky sneaks
Smiled on turning the leaves
On sensing your corners
Understood the creator's pain
The pain of adorning those leaves
Those leaves that have thorns and veins
You contained dots,
Dots, six popped out,
six punched in.
Heartfelt heavy for sure
On analysing the torture
The torture of oneself
Shed tears on knowing the revealed fact
The revealed story.
Slid within,
Felt the essence of love and life
I didn't want to harm
To harm by a pen
By a pen by underlining the passage.
Hats off to Louis Braille
A blind man
Felt the essence of a novel
Though those eyes were at rest
Though the world is black
Lived the moment of colours
By the warmth of which the eyes fell asleep.
Dated: 19.10.2014
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
i.
Iwis, in the overt eye's,
Her, mine Jane; ii.
I'll lionize. Erelong, the psalmody
Of courting gesture;
A consort's
diadem,
Meet
for
Treasures.
iii.
Tambourines shaketh
Whilst sistrum's
Jangle; horn's
And pipes
In the melody
Tangle.
iv.
Sitar and harp peal,
Shofar's explode
The comet's; un-
earthed by seven
seal's, reeling in
Renewal and
birth's of one
mindset.
v.
Free will is chosen,
though by Yahweh
abideth we; unclad
to the human fad,
In love- O' blessed
To be.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( pookie dedication)
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC
Chase the emerald fairy
Around the Eiffel Tower of France
Shadows swagger an acid dance
Of Hollywood trances and diamond glances
We’ll spout poetry beneath a glamoured moon amour
Drink whiskey and absinthe by the gallons
And wash it down with the finest wine
Grown from sultry ***** countryside
A poet’s star will drive jealousy mad
In famous graveyards of prostitutes and prose
Our night will be spent in gothic debauchery
Eyes once spoke the tale of flesh and lust
Pouting over torrentially voracious desires
Decadence deceived promises
Bewitched with voluptuous tongue
The playwright types at his typewriter
Typing funeral dirges of sitar and violin duels
The contravention of dawn’s chorus
Erupts behind curtains of pantomimes
Charms lost in the end of magnificent performances
Your whispers in my ear are the last I hope to hear
The last beautiful gasp of breath I hope to hear
Will be your whispers in my ear
(*Death sits before his typewriter
pounding keys in a ravenous lunatic frenzy
electing the end to our story
we have no contribution
only dealt the parts we act upon
and our scripts to speak*)
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
It was October of 1966 and he was 9.
He walked proudly
through the scary Brooklyn streets,
searching for that one corner he saw-
on the ride home from PS 361,
back when he was 8.
An entire 3 blocks from home,
and he arrived at Mamma Rosa’s.
“World Famous Taste."
he would taste it soon enough.
(He didn’t know it, but Mamma’s was only famous
for the pizza grease layer over the checkered table cloths).
He mastered the menu with his 3rd grade reading skills.
The “marr-in-ay-ruh” sauce sounded tasty.
The steaming spaghetti came towards his window seat,
and Billboard’s Top 10 Singles played over his noodle noises.
“Mother’s Little Helper” by The Stones was new to him.
He twisted his pasta to the beat of the sitar.
The spicy guitar chords and zest of the marinara on his tongue. . .
The al dente string
swayed
from his stinging lips and to the beat of the bass.
He paid in three quarters he got from the landlord.
He swept the driveway every Sunday.
It was the best sauce he will have ever tasted.
“What a drag it is-
getting old.”
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
Melody plays in my mind,
my imagination undulates
inside these red walls,
the chimes clink,
strong vibrations permeate
my skin and bones,
a sitar shakes my very soul.
I see your precious lips,
hear ancient chants,
feel your luscious skin
& listen to your heart beat
the deepest percussion,
such a soothing sound.
And if once,
if just once,
I could kiss your spirit,
we could fly forever
between the magic,
the twinkling of
the infinite stars,
swimming
in the Heavens
above us.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
being of sound mind and body
I must write of the days when I was slightly ******
when I would disappear into the beautiful abyss
with headphones
'Dark Side of the Moon'
or 'I Robot' taking me on journeys
only I could take
my room the isolation tank
from 'Altered States'
my mind the well that echoed within
the sitar vibrations of an unspoken thought
my dreams the night before realized in a wave
of painted sound
and when the consciousness of awake
and the boundless landscape of sleep
fused with the lost chord
one was as close as one could be to God
on this plane
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
Roja... Roja...
I watch her padding along The Sacred Ganges, so dreamy.
Looking all radiant in her red sari, satisfying my heart so weary.
For The Gods have embodied their most beautiful chant into you.
Like a bell that chimes in a distant soothing the night prayers so true.
Oh Roja....
You are the most sacred chant i have ever heard.
The most beautiful song i have ever sung.
For your heart is like a temple and i am a pilgrim in searching for peace and enlightment.
I am taking shelter from rain and sun in your enjoyment.
Roja... Roja...
I want to play my sitar and dance my songs away.
My songs would seep under your sari as i touch your skin in such a way.
My fingers would dance along the river of your shiny hair so deep.
Like a gentle summer breeze swirling through the leaves of a tree.
Roja... Roja...
My heart will dwell in your temple forever.
I will pour my songs at your feet and my journey i sever.
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 10:19 AM UTC