"tricolour" poems
#Happy Republic Day ....
On This Auspicious day, Today we are celebrating
67th Republic Day of India, as a citizen & child of this motherland i promise to make this country more beautiful by the contribution in the right direction & to protect this country with a humanity, so writing a short letter by expressing my love for my country & I proud to be an Indian...
Good time to examine who we are and how we got here..
Still the flames & a myth of scents tricolour my heart with the name to remind always the Country India...
To express my beautiful India dedicating a letter to and for real life humans and real life hero of country
who shelter us Everyday, every second, every time and they are the real pride of the nation.....
Soldiers
Never born to die or also called Shelter Shadow of country.
I m young and my thoughts towards country is huge for the contribution I believe in work after thinking..
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 6:59 AM UTC
I looked down a high cliff
at a restless ocean below,
I climbed the proud mountains
crowned with lofty clouds,
I reached the serene jungles
sitting in silent pride,
I did not find it...
I visited the richest nawabs
in their castles and towers,
I ate with the lowliest creatures
whom language didn't own,
I met the right-hands and mouths
of Gods we know from pages,
yet, I didn't find it...
At last, lost in thought
I walked by a crowd
Some in white, some in black, some in uniform.
All turned to a majestic but still figure
In an honored embrace of the Tricolour
Twenty-one guns and croaking crows later
I heard a little girl's cry -
"Keta 9GR ko ** ke hoena" - ** ** **
The tears never ceased,
The roar never stopped
With faltering steps, the brave-heart...
There.
I found it,I found inspiration.
(Refer to the notes)
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
The jet- black, coal-smeared dawn
of days afterwards
of starless nights
and moon less nights
of deep dark darkness
thick and sticky
pitch and oil
***** days of charred wood
and ash.
That scouring whiteness
that etching acid purity
of white heat metal days
The crisp starched sun-scented
wind sail sheet
smoothed flat peace flag days.
That white marble slab cool
blanched forensic world
of questions and answers.
The sunset rusty reddening
pain deadening
leeching of the scarlet wash
crimson and vermilion
ruby berries and rose blush
blood tear letting
letting go.
No lead for gold - no alchemy here
No runes or trickery - no book of spells
No steady path of transformation
Just the heavy hollowed wreath
that black, white and red tricolour
of grief.
© M.L.Emmett
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
My first recollection of the sea
was not the water but the sky.
How could it be that if I could
walk the waves I'd reach the clouds.
It was an illusion of which I had
no idea how to explain or even ask.
And why, if it was tilted towards
the coast, did the surf spill in?
There was a lot about the ocean that
left me wondering and then the beach.
Where was it, and why did we have to
drive so far in a Morris Minor to see it?
Or why did my father bring a shovel
and three bags to bring home the sand?
We had a grainy garden which the snails
avoided because of the saline grit.
'Good for the aeration of the soil,' he told
our neighbour, who was leaning on the fence.
When it rained heavily for days on end we
had puddles, small lakes and tiny Atlantics.
I don't ever recall going back. The Morris
Minor rusted; they blamed the sea for it.
It became a chicken house, they entered by
the boot floor that the stolen sand had rotted.
OIK 603 was the license number, it was green
with orange indicator wings on the door posts.
There were six of us, all as pale as the white
chevron in the centre of the Irish Tricolour.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 7:22 AM UTC
One early morning, when I was out in my garden,
I met a gorgeous Monarch butterfly dazzling.
I exclaimed...you are so bright and beaming,
will you help me paint my country with your wings so shining?
We have shades but they are all synthetic!!
I want your colours as they are organic and enduring.
Cyclones, floods and cataclysm have washed-out the beauty of my land..i sighed!
I shall paint your land with my elegant wings...he replied!!
Paint my land with the colours of the tricolour.
The top may be painted with bold saffron.
The pure white colour of yours may then flow through the heart of the land .
My friend, paint the final part with the soothing hue of green.
And at last, splash a colour of your choice to cover up all the dents and fungus that had cropped up in our hearts for so long.
These are our colours..my countrymen must not forget
We are one and we stand united!
The Monarch smilingly said, "I shall do what you say, but promise me to keep them the same as I start painting from today".🦋🦋🦋🦋
Bina Mukherjee
Jun 8, 2020
Jun 8, 2020 at 8:26 AM UTC
I stood there, amidst the rain
Amidst the flags, amidst the words
Amidst the thousands, amidst everything
Wondering where the feelings are
I searched it in the flags
I looked for it in the words
I sought for it in people
Still coudn't find them
I did find relief though
Realising that they are not alive
Because for what they fought to raise(the tricolour)
Is being held by a machine
The sad part is
We couldn't fullfill that one promise
The promise of keeping our flag raising
Not by machines but by our efforts
As I stepped outside and looked on the corrupted road
I saw crushed flags I saw crushed hope
A man buying the tricolour from a child
I saw a struggling childhood, I saw a struggling independence
In the midst of all this, I saw a struggling independence
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 5:13 AM UTC
As I sip my cappuchino in a bar
In the north
The heart of The North
I think about the past
Of how it has come to be
Like this, tamed, no longer
A place of conflict
Just animosity
So strange to me
Ireland but not as I know it
Strange flags fly
On the roadside
Of Batallions,
And identities
All strangers to me
Then I see a tricolour
To remind me
This is Ireland too
It's still home, but not
Like my southern repose
The other funny thing is
I kinda like it here
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
I tried to write about the tricolour today,
I lifted the pen and spilt the ink on the paper,
the paper was white, white as in the tricolour
the spilt ink was navy blue, navy blue as in the tricolour's wheel.
I then dripped my hands in it,
my hands too became navy blue as I wrote the word 'INDEPENDENCE'
But that word did not belong to me, not to us, not as yet.
The 'Independence' I proudly talked of,
the sacrifices I mentioned,
were all foreign.
they were all spoken and written not in my language but in somebody else's.
I took two seconds to write 'INDEPENDENCE'
and eight seconds to write on my own.
I then realised we're caged and perhaps this time we don't wish to free ourselves anymore.
Two 'teardrops' fell and it became 'DEPENDENCE'.
well, even the tears were foreign and so was the mind.
I crushed the paper that looked foreign too,
and sat on my desk reading about my language.
So that next time when
I try to write about the tricolour,
I write in my own tongue.
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC
I walked down the snow-covered land.
It was windy but I could not breathe.
As I walked, the snow under my feet whispered,
'there are lovers more in love than about who Shakespeare wrote,
but such stories once heard get stuck in the throat'.
So, there I lay down on the snow,
the snow felt warm.
It narrated the story of a man and a land.
How the land love the man and the man loved the land.
The man's love was the one that would last forever.
It was not the kind that would sink into your heart
but float right through it so your waves long for more.
The man loved so much that,
the cold snow on the land made the man's blood boil
and the land stayed warm.
The land loved the man so much that,
her rocks became his stage
and he acted his last act with love.
The man love the land and so much that,
his breath made her tricolour hair fly.
The land loved the man so much that,
her shrieks turned him into an artist
and he painted it all red.
The man loved the land so much that,
his blood left his body to embrace her
just the way Bhagirathi descended on mother Earth.
The land loved the man so much that,
she embraced him tight under her snow blanket to protect him.
The man loved the land so much that
his body lay on the land
while their stories loved each other.
The land loved the man so much that
she let the man lie on her
while she was crushed under all the weight she held.
His body was still holding the land,
the snow was still red.
The man loved the land so much that he died for her.
The land loved the land so much that she lived for him.
Aug 14, 2020
Aug 14, 2020 at 11:54 PM UTC
The palindrome falls on shadowed riots,
clamoured mediocrity
and fever of falsified truths-
hyper-normalised until we’re writhing
in animatronic snake oil.
What’s worse, the hysteria or the disease?
Over-indulge the fascists
kiss their fists as they flail in cognitive dissonance-
white knuckles dragging to the rhythm of another media blag.
Patriotism cradles their fear and wraps it in red, white, and blue;
a stifled tricolour vision,
bathed in sanctified blood-clotted volition.
They’ll never let them come clean
they need their repugnance,
and inability to see that hope is an option
but the disparity is always just a news broadcast away.
Feb 2, 2020
Feb 2, 2020 at 3:01 AM UTC
Your eyes so hollow
White as snow you stare away
Your goal is to follow
But keep my eyesight at bay
Your hands are soft as clouds
Gently sliding down the lake
Open my heart to your sounds
Keeping me outside the wake
Sunlight burns a hole in the ground
You are walking, you don’t come near
Maroon backgrounds excite the nerves
Seems to me like you have no fears
How can I find you when you are so distant
Who are you if I went inside your mind
How can I find you if you don’t know who I am
Tricolour landscapes
Turn around I want to show you
Secretly seeing
Everything you didn’t see before
Well how can I find you when I have no idea who you are
Your name speaks of sorrows you so expertly hide inside
Characters of future sins are yours to aspire
Don’t you want to come and talk to me?
Dark deep lunar settings is the place where we will meet
I want you to show me sweetly exactly where to place my feet
Step jump and a warm surrounding is what we will feel
Where have you been these past years finally I can heal
Long exposure
Soft enclosure
You turn your head toward me and I look away
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 4:57 PM UTC
For me,
love was
my favourite
pale yellow chiffon dress
or may be
my light brown hemp neck less
Brightness of diamonds
placed closely on my fingers
Or darkness of black lines
around my eyes
Love,
may be smiling, giggling or crying over long phonecalls
Or spending hours and hours
and someone’s savings
in a overcrowded mall
Tell me.
how could I realize love can be
more than my imagination,
and your life
It could be choosing
sleepless nights in dark forests
filled with pointed stones
when chances to throw your body
over a cushy bed
in a warm room
is still on
How could I know
how it feels
to take a bullet
directly on your chest
only to
protect the soil on which you were born?
And we, whom you left
in our five star rooms
to sleep peacefully
watch movies with bowls of popcorns
will never understand
what you did for us
even though
we are not related with relations
Today
When I saw you
sleeping peacefully
in the arms of tricolour
and 21-gun salute
could not touch your ear
Today when
thousands of bodies like me
with tear filled heart
raised their hand
I realized
my heart can never love the way
your heart does
and
your soul can never be touched
with my prayers
because
I have never been there
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC
Black met White,
And together,
They drew Red.
The philosopher's stone was forged
In a head-on collision.
White Mother.
Black Other.
Red Child of Life.
Abandoned.
Born of conflict.
Forgotten but forever remembering.
The real holy trinity is a terrible tricolour.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
Being puny, young and too impatient to understand time would eventually change me, I sulked at the unfairness of the world.
He sensed I felt exactly what I was: a limp sapling too fragile and green to be allowed join the hunt of adventure with the older children.”Fetch me water from the well,” he said, more so a suggestion than a request.
Galloping to show my pace under his constant protective eyes, I reached the stone hemmed shaft.
Looping the rope through the eye of the weighted pail handle, I eagerly watched the vessel plummet into oblivion. Savouring the echoed dunk and gulp. The silent count to seven reverberated within.
Bracing myself in a determined stance. Straining against the initial load, I heaved. Hand griped over hand grip on the thick rough hemp cord. I allowed its slack to gather as it wished on the earth by the foot of the attached secure spike.
The last hoist was always the hardest for me. Trying as I could to avoid the bottom of the pail from striking the lip of the well. Swinging it clear, I untangled the umbilical cord. I carried the burden with dread. One arm was awkwardly angled for balance in case too much sloshed over the brim and soaked my feet, or worse, dampened my chances to prove my worth.
“Place it on the bench.” He nodded to the far end from where he sat as rigid and as tragic as a dense tree stump hinting at the might which he once was. Standing by his shoulder, I watched him overlap the flesh of his bog-wood tough hands into a cup. Without a flinch or goose-bump to note the coolness of the water, he sank his hands into the pail.
He slowly raised the basin of flesh. From the gathered pool minute drips seeped back into its source. He looked at me with his tricolour eyes of pitched pupils moated by iris of speckled cloudy blue in a sclera battlefield tinged with a sepia hue.”This is all I can lift. You’ve carried more than I one-handed.”
He sipped the last of the diminishing pool, only wasting the dampness of his fingers upon his woolen top. I followed his gaze to my own petal hands. I did not notice him leaving as I examined my palms in a new light.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
Did the clues betray the fantasist
from Uncle Bulgaria on the Cornwall move
alas his mother dies yearly
twice so far anyway
as the wind cries liar
but lets take a specialist narcissist
too busy planning a wedding on that train
from Vietnam to volunteer
in Uganda or Gambia
as voices speak in head
been there done it Mr Revisionist
he was at the barricade at the Bastille
hoisting the tricolour he writes
as ladies swoon
he's done them all
our Chamberlain is now Revolutionist
fighting for a New World order on keyboard
after he left the RAF
do let tell worthless bullies
the clues are in plain sight
the contempt is resounding
even Buddha knows that
Apr 6, 2022
Apr 6, 2022 at 8:03 PM UTC
Here where pits line the roads,
loss, we are so inured to in life:
wild-haired hero, when did you
go from warrior to zen master?
Breathing into the night,
the tricolour high:
we rose as one with you;
at the crest, now a vacuum
too hard to fill;
Now no artist the same,
that toils by sultry nights
in our backyard;
Who are you to us?
Lifting our spirits soaring
helicopter goes the sixer -
bouncing our sorrows off the park,
winning from death, the joy!
You are a memory
of the silvery night of hope
the miracle of faith
the tidal wave of belief
that engulfs adversity.
Go but you will never be gone
and a hundred such be born
in this your name, that in the stands
will yet never ring the same;
Aug 15, 2020
Aug 15, 2020 at 1:59 PM UTC