"varieties" poems
A blue black cloud, all over me is written JOY
in the script of vapor, dense, moist and meaningful,
I am light, like a feather, the breeze is in love with me for that,
I love his gentle persuasion to waft, move about, explore..
and then--ravaged by wind my love changes direction.
I love freedom more than anything, but forgot limits, hover
now, I am no more attached to the green hills, they are jealous,
far above them am I, untouched by their vainglorious pride,
I am not hard-hearted, parched fields send shivers of lightning
break me in to thousand smaller pieces, scatter around.
My love for this earth is kindled by the sights unfurling below
all the egrets, cormorants, storks and herons of great magnificence,
those kind hearted friends that fly with me often are in pain
like the farmers, there isn't enough water for anything.
A cloud is a thought, inspired by the love for mother earth
by the ocean I am gifted to the breeze, to tour around,
on many lands fell my shade, found life in all varieties,
now is the time to be kind at heart, melt, fall in torrents.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
How beautiful you are to me
With your varieties of colors and such
I look at you with great awe
Your beauty is my inspiration
No thrones and hooks
Just smooth skin and good looks
Not to big and not too skinny
Some how you managed
To be a perfect balance
You stand tall with pride
You stand in unity with your family
With your chest facing toward the sun
Ahh your beauty is something
i want to become
As time grows old
My admiration for you dies
You lose your beauty
Your face turn into nothing but old bones
Black as the night
As if you hold dark secrets
Like you've been through a rough life
A story untold
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 1:19 AM UTC
By now,the seed varieties of the world,
may have been attacked beyond recovery
by wars of pretense and relapses.
We are still learning
how to handle it properly.
We tend to say.
Some will talk and plan over dinner parties,
over TV or Radio. Most will leave
it behind like another corpse
of lessons thrown to the gutter,
like a dead *** on another Sunset Boulevard.
Iraq's seed banks
we blew up in the 2000s.
In various places in Asia
and the Middle East, places of life and cultured
varieties gone in an instant.
Echoing our imprisoned
ignorance and drives for more instant goods and services.
Indian farmers have committed mass suicides after
their god Hanuman was used by a chemical giant
to sell poison seeds and renewed
bondages of indebtedness.
One question a stranger asked a group of writers on tour
was not what their poetry or books were about,
nor why they wrote it, but how writing may and
may not be helping as we make decisions and solve problems now?
Once agricultural lands turn into new promises
of commercial buildings. Cities of inaccessible towers and
abandoned malls in America, Spain, China, and Russia
feeds us back our own echo.
Like converted uses of lands, our humanity
is converted into inanimate collections and status
symbols of some players or parties. As we face
our continuing struggle between
our oppressor-selves and our genuine roots.
Despite the perversions,
inside vicious habits of waste
where we glorify promises of war and efficiencies,
we continue to be entrusted with the ongoing lessons:
Rarely do surviving generations through famine, war and diseases,
throw away means to live, or destroy any kind of seed.
Every day we wake to the ruins and remains of
Our living poetry, word spaces, hours, exchanges,
gains and losses, stopping and going. This time,
not just for fires of anguish or unnecessary losses,
but for each other's midnight lamps.#
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 12:42 AM UTC
Hello friends & wishing you all a very
An auspicious & prosperous DIWALI.
"You aim always for a new glow for a whole year;
Hard work glows your day for the time
Likewise Light is a glowing nature
It is a hope, faith and light shine in your life,
A Candle glows for an hour;
Matchstick glows for a few seconds;
But a wish glows forever.
Here is my wish for a glowing Diwali and glowing year till next time....
..............HAPPY DIWALI...............
On this auspicious festival of Diwali
I wish & pray that, may everyone Life filled with a Sparking color of happiness & Light of Prosperity. May this world & people of this country live with a calmness & Fortune for love.
Diwali is one of my favorite festival & it is also the festival of light where houses are decorated with candles & many more things, making it a perfect festival, it is also one of the most beautiful festivals celebrated around the world through Indian culture, it seen a metaphor instincts for self-improvement and as well representing for a new beginnings. It involves a strong belief in giving to people in need, and performing every ritual by traditionally, a time for new clothes to be worn & Indian sweets is seen as a varieties of colours and flavours are eaten during the celebrations.
So wish you a happy diwali & May this writing platform of hellopoetry continues as the same mark of living, an originality of making a talent into a magic light.
Again, like every festival I use to mention to invite from my heart to all this cheerful people so I am inviting everyone to be a part of Indian festivals and culture... everyone is most welcome to India..
India is Country to experience different Tradition, with a beauty of joy, beauty of passion, beauty of love , beauty of art & beauty of everything that you have never experienced before...
reality is the real life.. ....
Thank-you..
-Chirayu!.
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
I am half-Chinese and a half Filipino-Spanish.
I have only learnt to speak Filipino my whole life.
The best advises I have received is that there is no right or wrong,
that labels does not always help.
That no matter what, I should just go
and "Live my life", or "Sing in Full Voice, Until Then".
Attentive to a fault to the work or person at hand.
Because of routine and living demands, sometimes I
only pay attention to what is available or given to me.
Like the quest for the Spices of the East, I could no longer live the same way when the time came. I had to learn preservation and other flavors.
In a Asian Food Show, someone shares
How some later generation Chinese had to study their own native language in secret between 1966 to 1998.
Stories of how their migrant or refugee heritage have made them scapegoats of many local tensions.
And varieties of words and ingredients also native to Chinese and later generations that lived offshore.
Many of us now in the thrash of our collective songs
towards healing and full living as humanity, continuing
refugees and wanderers in our own ways.
Where we see our indigenous-selves and our oppressor-selves,
is not as difficult as we are usually made to,
in a world of artificial
demands and surpluses.
One old song gently reminds me
in many languages singing,
as another bowl of handmade noodles
breaks open into countless random pieces:
We are only passing through earth.
Made to experience, and let go of our fears
and limitations.To gather our remains so that
it is inanimate buildings and objects that are used
by the living instead, and nothing is left behind.
To not leave a trace. To learn how to love.#
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 1:27 AM UTC
The Sword of Non-Violence
The time we born
Is a age of war-mongers
East to West
South to North
Throughout the World
There's not a single moment
You can't heard about a war
It's a must in our daily life
May be in lieu of civil war
But it exists
None can disobey it's presence
And,where there is a war
There must be a weapon
And,in true sense war can't be without weapon
There're so many varieties of this weapon
Even may be countless
But,once a person made exception
Yes,he invented a sword
The SWORD OF NON-VIOLENCE
Strange it seems to be
But,it's fact
And,we should proud of him
Because,he's an Indian
We all know him as Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi
Also renowned as Bapuji i.e Father of Nation
We celebrate his birth anniversary as a holiday
But,did we even use his weapon once in our lifetime?
Surely,the answer would be no
But,if we really respect him
We should do so
Isn't it?
Think it off!
And,last of all I would like to conclude with
If he can so we too-Written on 02.10.2012
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
To us, time does not belong
And since reality is wrong...
Live with me in legacy
You're so close already
Residing in memory
Only a hearts twinge and without cringe
My pleasuring in teaching to uke
A warranty insurance for a more creative you
Ill stand on the needle of your thread, fixed and stable without dread
Get tied up and dragged around by your apron strings
Feel the chain around your neck swing as it stings and swings
Be what your tongue tastes when taking all varieties of temperature
Be the brush you use to finish assignments when they get to be too much
As wine deminshes and glass comes clear, take the role of servant, pour countless refill, until you're ready to be bed in achieving complete fulfill
Rest assured, If you feel fear or need a mirror, allow me to transform into reflection to tell you how beautiful everything you wear
and how to me
you are so dear
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
You left me with all these memories
The way you stir your coffee
That eyebrow you would raise
Your quiet confidence
Your understated
Elegant style
Your knowing ways
You had me at hello
And now at goodbye
Always and still you amaze
I'm a better man for loving you
A sadder man for losing you
I'm not going through a phase
Just reminiscing, maybe convincing myself
That I'm gonna be OK
Dreams come in two varieties
Those of tomorrow or the other
For me, for us, there is only the past
Why I dream only of yesterday
I have no choice
It just turned out that way
I can almost touch you at times
But when I try, you turn away
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
It was the watermelon diet, he said
That's what killed me
A lie as ripe as the freshest rind
Listen to the man
He was there at my deathbed
Though he never cared for my diet
It was the watermelon diet
not some virus
That consigned me to the Gods
The watermelon diet
Why now do they doubt my exotic pallet?
They've turned a blind eye to everything else
until now
For months, I guzzled nothing but sweet watermelon
Fat mounds of flesh between my greedy cheeks
The sheer volume of water left me bloated
Before I shed an immense amount of baggage
What else could be to blame?
Enough of your questions and on to the cremation
We'll see whether watermelon burns immortal
It began in Africa- no lie there
And comes in seedless varieties
I never planted mine
Though I wasn't want for trying
I can still taste the bitter juices as I lay here in my crypt
An artful coroner smelt a rat
Or a chance- to prove his mettle
Never heard of any watermelon diet
This is Palm Springs not Papa Nu Guinea
A sample of tissue foiled our grand conspiracy
Same thing that got Rock Hudson
But they kept a straight face
Kept to the story, mindful of my legacy
I'm not just any ******
Takes something grand and elaborate to dispose of me
An immigrant farmhand once told me “watermelon cure the AIDS”
And I believed him
At least that's what I'd have you believe
End
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
Some sit there and take in the message of the word.
While you wonder about others seated next to you.
If the message was ever heard.
Some sit and say amen to the truth.
Whle you still ponder what's going on next to you.
Church folks.
The people, who say there come for the word.
Sometimes you wonder.
Wonder, what change after church?
Where outside you see the attitudes change?
People arguing over almost anything.
Not that they are not legit.
But there's a time and a place.
Church folks.
This inner family of members.
Where you only need three touching and agreeing?
Except, even them seems bent on debating.
Was the minister's message ever heard?
Did they not listen to the mesaages of the sermon?
And what about the visitors?
Do you think as church folks you left a good mark upon them?
Least, to ever return again.
Church men.
Yes, many church ladies knows the creeps amongst them.
Always trying to hit upon them.
And the church women.
Even some creeps in the ministry is trying to eye even them.
Church folks.
Oh, they comes in many varieties.
But without them
Where would we be?
They do pray for you.
As they do me.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
- Ode to food .
Barbecue Ribs ;
I Swear If Youu Were a person youu'd Have a Crown .
You'd Be The Queen of your town .
Youu make Other Foods Envy Youu Because of your delicious Barbeque Sauce And Your Juicy Meat .
Youu got fans because Your who their mouth wants to meet .
Ice cream ;
Your cold ,
But you never get old .
Everyone Loves Youu ,Your Like Your Heaven sent .
Everyone Loves you Exept For the lactose - intolerant .
You come in different flavors ,
Your served in different Dishes ,
You have different Toppings ,
The one thing people Is Scared To do to youu is dropping .
Youu melt down people's Throat ,
Filling them with joy .
Youu make babys Wanna leave their favorite toy .
Chips ;
Crunchy ,
Munchy .
Who Dosnt Eat Youu ?
Like , I mean everyone Likes you new .
Your so fly .
Not literaly Fly .
Thats Apparently a lie ,
Its Obvious you cant fly .
Your different .
Youu Come differently ..
Your so good they clone youu Continuesly .
Chicken ;
Youu had to die
To Satisfy .
Youu do Good to my stomach ,
Make Me Feel good .
Your so good .
Youu Can even be barbequed ,
Your so good i wanna play a harp for youu .
You Can Be Boiled Too .
But I Dont Like you like that , Eww .
Candy ;
Your so dandy .
You Come In Different Varieties .
Skittles , M&MS; Even Jelly beans .
Who dont love youu , i mean Youu That Babie .
Everyone love youu Exept People with Diabetes .
This Is My Ode Too Food .
Food That Taste M-m-m Good .
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
this global catastrophe,
happened when a group,
of people called society,
decided to do something,
beyond their sanity,
calling this massive destruction,
we made,
humanity.
you see,
these people who come,
from different varieties,
preaching from any type of equality,
knows nothing of the prophecy,
that's leading them into,
a catastrophe.
their heads stuck to their,
devices,
little did they know that the,
ice is,
melting.
don't you hear trees,
crying?
when our brutal machines cut them,
we're not even trying?
and yet we still believe,
society thinks,
brutality is somewhat,
less beyond our sanity,
making this world,
a global catastrophe.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 8:25 PM UTC
The sunshine melts in from the dark.
The summer sunflowers start their morning yellow glow.
From the dark of nights despair and suffering.
The light of questioning wakes up,
I begin to ask why the pain?
Did I, or do I have the capacity to be optimistic of my will? Over matters of the past?
Shame, denial, self- soothing, trying to escape emotional pain through all varieties of addictive responses to life.
Understanding this new target for my heart, mind, and body gives me optimism of the will while
knowing
there will always be suffering.
I ask myself, what is my capacity? As the light rises in the morning I feel more air to breathe in.
Aware of the air inside of me whether in dark or light, carries some vessel of hope
to help ward off the strength of suffering.
I am not the wave. I am the ocean. The womb. Conceptualize
the possibilities in this morning dry landscape,
before abandonment. Conceptualize having what you need. Ease and compassion enters. Possibilities move through with ease and healing is within reach.
The capacity to heal needs warmth like the morning globe of light.
Sep 7, 2023
Sep 7, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
You took my hand and asked me to dance,
But I was far too tired to do so,
The simple act of walking being far beyond
My limited capabilities at that point.
I had been reduced to hugs and kisses,
And tales of how glorious my past lives had been,
And holding hands.
I wondered if I should let go- it seemed so different,
From any I'd ever held before, that hand.
For years I'd held others with the sole
Intention of drawing pain away-
I am not capable of creating happiness,
And I've never claimed otherwise.
Your hand had no pain to draw away though,
Or at least none that I could find,
Which startled me (All the others held so much!)
I had thought I knew all there was to know about hands-
Their needs, and all the varieties they come in.
How they all needed comforting in different ways
For similar ailments- grief, loneliness,
Heartbreak, being among the most common.
I'd even learnt to hold phantoms limbs for a few.
I'd move the pain aside, lessen it, or sometimes
Even take it as my own, releasing it when no-one else was looking,
Into a stone, or an abandoned old house.
But your hand simply said "I am here to be held."
It shocked me so much I didn't realise I was
Walking again. You glided gracefully ahead
As I clunked behind, unsure of myself,
Holding on to you, trying to figure you out
In the short window of opportunity I had left.
I saw it as our interlocked fingers departed.
Somewhere in the webbing between your ring
And index fingers on your left hand
Was what I had been searching for all along.
I won't go into detail about what I saw
(Our pain is no-one's business but our own),
But I saw it though, far more beautifully arranged
Than I thought was ever possible,
Noticing you had stolen some of mine
When I wasn't looking, and wondering
How much damage I had done.
I don't know whether I danced with you or not,
The release answered so much while
Explaining not quite enough.
I watched you, enraptured by the way
The pain never once showed
Through those beautiful, happy eyes,
Which never seemed to break.
Now I wonder if I had held your palm
Not too little, but far too much.
The pain I saw was labelled thus-
"Life experiences- Please don't touch
All is well. Please remain calm."
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
an assembly or
better named
a clump
of multifarious flotsam
presenting its untidy self
on a recent passing
streetcorner..
a hesitating photo records
a drifting pinecone
centering a stained
and shredding newspaper
a broken sharp stick
red rocks of scales and shadings
flecking dried green leaves..
order imposed by
framing and shaping of
the sidewalk corner..
might other forms emerge
with a focused patience?
a partial headline reads
...sound without the wires..
news of expanding connections
outside a material realm?
headline seemed embedded
in thick advertising bulk
announcing a continuing
culture of material weight..
much else of red and green..
the centering pinecone
occasional pineal symbol of
higher dimension entry..
somehow rightly here
in the dark center
of this mess
this a brief experiment
not yet for most an answer
a question now of mining
finding patterned varieties
in large nature's trove..
patient visions residing in
gathered fragments
if gathered they be..
expectations of more
in what persists
of this and that in
time... :)
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:03 PM UTC
Did you know the East Indian Bottle Masala includes as many as 27 spices, or that an oil-free pickle served at their weddings is actually known as Wedding Pickle?
These and many such authentic East Indian masalas and pickles are available at East Indian Cozinha (Portuguese for kitchen), a food store started by Christina Kinny at Kolovery Village in Kalina, Santacruz. "I started East Indian Cozinha with an attempt to preserve and highlight our cuisine and culture," says the 24-year old, who has studied Masters in Social Work and currently, works with an enterprise that helps tribal farmers.
What’s in store?
Going back 500 years, the East Indian cuisine enjoys influences from Portuguese, British and Maharashtrian fare. The staples include rice, coconut, tamarind, fish and meats, with spices forming an integral part of the cuisine. For instance, Prawn Atola is a dry dish comprising prawns coated only with Vindaloo Masala featuring Kashmiri chilli, cumin and turmeric. "Most people from our community were farmers and would be out on field all day. So, the masalas and lemon would help preserve their food for a longer time," reasons Kinny.
At present, the store stocks six varieties of masala in 100g bottles (R150 onwards). These include Khuddi or Bottle Masala, Chinchoni (fish) Masala, Vindaloo Masala, Roast Rub, Kujit Masala and Tem Che Rose. She also offers Wedding Pickle, an oil-free variety prepared with raw papaya, carrots and dry dates. "All the recipes have been passed on from generations and are homemade," she informs.
However, making the masalas is no cakewalk. "It takes three days to dry spices under the sun. Then, we hand pound them and pack them tightly in bottles with wider openings," says Kinny. She recalls that in her grandmother’s time, the masalas were tightly stuffed in beer bottles. The bottles were darker, and hence, helped preserve the masala for at least a year, at room temperature.
Lugra love
East Indian Cozinha also stocks traditional 10-yard saris known as lugras. These are hand embroidered by Kinny’s mother, Carol. Previously made only from cotton with authentic gold borders, now, lugras are embroidered with sequins and threads. "She has been in the garment industry for the last 30 years. She also makes traditional accessories like kapotas (earrings), karis (hair pins), anklets, etc," informs Kinny.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
**Love... Quite edible one could imagine.
Some may be famished beyond imaginary boundaries due to his or her own taste.
From sweet kisses, to bitter love, to varieties of flavor that spices up our lives.
We drink lover's spit if we care enough at the moment we see them, the edible ones because,
quite frankly the taste is so grand...
Only through time will we be seasoned to find perfection,
Until then it lingers, as our taste buds crave for more.
Something so tasteful that...
a man would swallow his pride,
a woman would eat her doubts,
a new born will sip it's nourishments,
a free food that no one could ever get full from...
Yet if prepared in the wrong conditions,
love could spoil and poison you, harm you,
destroy you...
So make the best out of the ingredients that you have,
To make it a grand feast that lasts,
before it all expires and goes to waste....
Let this marinade... Before it becomes your food for thought.
Let your cravings state that you are what you eat... lovely soul food.**
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
CHAI GARAM CHAI
Millions of cups of TEA/CHAI each day, we Indians happily consume
It is almost a must every morning, evening and before we work resume
Lures us its aroma at home or when we pass by a tea-stall, tempting are its fumes
One of the most consumed drinks in India is definitely chai, anyone can this presume
Huge varieties there are, count one cannot; but the most famous I guess is Masala chai
Most Indians, specially Gujjus, this thoroughly enjoy; even foreigners must definitely it try.
Every morning a fresh cup of boiling chai makes your day; ah! that cup of "garma-garam chai"
My most favorites are the aadu-ilaichi (ginger cardamom) n Bawaji special, the fudhina-leeli-chai
Once you sip it, along with Bun-Muska, almost addicted you are, you get a "Chaska" true.
There is an art in concocting a good cup of chai; one must know how to it properly brew
Sadly I wasn't allowed to taste coffee or tea/chai when young, I tasted it, only when I grew
Tea here, is a drink old, but the Brits loved it n made it famous; so, chai is old tea is new
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 4:59 AM UTC
There are the two choices. Wicked, wheel-men curving towards that which I wear in the evening when I paint on my black suit. The pitter-patter of organic matter, the Metropolis ground fresh. You tell me raspberry, I tell you I am not impressed. And then from the inimical lips, those bards from distance, sand spots and hordes of watering holes I place fresh Republicans on- and they were stealing the magazines.
Jury on.
Four devils they figure some, four devils. A anthelmintic potion to square away the worms. The pink worm, who takes long-distance telephone calls on your roommates only moments before the red worm, his head shriveled and his limbs crying from ****** she the blue curly worm; she is what we've been looking out and everything about this evening has slipped in the pattern we expected. Red light in fact,
They used the concatenations of frog legs(this was the big deal since My Mother loved the chelura of some tropical varieties of frogs and funny-legged), banjax the first one before the weather catches the summary being the news. Going as far as the the ecstasy of officials leaving the scene. The species catching its last names of life- genus and family alike racing towards safety.
And so I build in the fly zone. I haggle for President, and make sacred the realms of figures; denaturalized are the entanglements of humans, even whatever the mephitic and bellicose shadows shend and fordo their greatest powers.
I lull and lust, my pugnacious frazil, just like my recalcitrant logomachy that I ****** and slide angrily and profusely with m and everything I try to do. Just so long as you can see me usufruct and lobby forthright the message.
Mine. Hate. Anxiety.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
Earthy mottled brown,
Pomme de terre
The humble spud,
When not covered in mud;
Chipped, boiled or mashed,
Steamed roasted or hashed.
First the Incas of Peru,
Used them in a stew.
Now the tubers grown in space,
To further the human race.
Chopin, Mozart, and Vivaldi,
Can all be bought at Aldi.
(Other supermarkets are available.)
(More varieties are saleable.)
A versatile Maris Piper,
Couldn't be any riper,
When served perfectly baked.
© Nick Strong 2014
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
*En route to your heart,
I strayed in to,
the lush garden of your youth,
full of unsullied flowers,
kissed only by mischievous sun.
No man can even, think
of turning his back to this
veritable feast for senses;
it transmitted a vibe resonating,
perfectly with my psyche.
The heady fragrance emanating
from varieties of flowers did speak
of magical pleasures unexplored
I did eagerly heed,
was it by pure chance
or were there plans to allure me in,
I don't even want to know,
it suits well to my desires.
Amorous droning of inebriated bees
rang in my ears,
making me giddy.
Spring time it was
in your budding new garden,
being a pretender
who elicits the best effect
you smartly feigned ignorance
of my presence,
(As you expected, I suppose)
I lost my way and ended up
in the spirited night we shared between us,
harvesting wild fruits with a verve
we had never known before,
pleasures of many seasons
were there in store, I was astonished,
a consummate seductress you were.
a she wolf, under a sheep's skin.
but kind amorita, most adroit.
Could I ever blame you
an iridescent creature, exquisite
oh! the candor that marks your surrender!
Scent of flowers wafting on the wind,
created the effect of rarefied air
my lungs are full to the brim
with your feminine spices.
Does this happy transgression
to your secret scented garden
make me a fallen angel,
or am I a slave of your whims
entrapped for the rest of our lives?
Either way your wile wins
a knight in shining armor or
bereft of it, and naked, for your sake
I willingly submit before
the light that shines in you,
I'd make your garden mine.*
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
Today is my sister's wedding
A full day for me to shine
In my peacock green dress
The new full skirt and blouse
With golden laces and pearls
Full of laughter and music
House being crowded with
Close relatives and guests
With three of my cousins
Was standing near a table with
A plate of rock candies and raisins
Bowl of sandalwood paste
Me, spraying the fragrant rose
Water on guests with a smile
Welcoming them to the function
Stage was ready with a para,
A traditional measuring instrument
Filled with paddy, unmilled rice
Decorated with a bouquet of
Beautiful coconut flowers
Lighted bell metal traditional
Lamp,the large nilavilakku
With its glowing light was a
Pleasant vision to the eyes
Can see you all in the front row
Can hear the laughter of girls
With the groom's arrival
Girls,with thaalam,antique
plates with a lamp, lemons
And garland of flowers
Welcoming the groom to the stage
Bride, in her maroon saree with
Golden laces,tied hair decorated
With a ball of jasmine flowers
And shining gold ornaments
Covered from head to toe
Being accompanied by two aunties
Making her sit near the groom
Gorgeous romantic pair were they
With a heart full smile of their day
Exchanged their garlands and
Were given a flower bouquet
Groom tying a knot,a chain with
Thali, which was a pendant
Showering flowers on the
Bride and groom as a blessing
One by one to the stage giving
Wishes and gifts to the couple
Wonderful snaps with my
Sister and new brother-law
Time for lunch on a plantain leaf
Steamed rice, varieties of curries,
Fried items and the special
Sweet payasam with pappadam
Bride and groom sharing their
Lunch with love and laughter
Leaving to her in-laws house
With her eyes filled and red
One by one leaving the hall
Except the dear and near ones
With an after war expression
Tired were they,my parents
But happy to get their daughter
Married to the right guy
It's time to rest and wait for
The albums and videos with anxiety
In seeing my new dress and smile !
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
During moments I yearned for forests grown for me alone,
Caressing them in a dream,
I could sense the throbbing of the heart
Hidden beneath my ribs to bless my journey.
Summoning me with a pulse that he recognizes in me.
I heard the noise of abandoned smoke from a moment of care
Join with me,
Forcefully traversing desires to the hidden-most one.
My spirit swung toward him,
Creating a tingling
On lips that devour breaths alive.
I felt ashamed,
But the eye,
In moments—I scarcely know what to call them—that took me on another route
Toward the television, saw warplanes . . . spray death on them.
At that moment,
The fire of machine guns raked all the bodies,
And another fire raked my body when I trained my eye on him
Hesitantly inclining his head
Toward a shoulder unaccustomed to the secret of the stars of war
Or to insomnia.
Oh . . . . I leaned on it!
And when he caressed a dumbfounded person
I felt his fingers like coiling embers inside me.
Bashfulness seized the excuse this caress gave . . . and vanished,
Eliminating distance till the two of us were one.
And the eye—he moaned: May love not forgive her the eye—repeated another evasion
Toward a drizzle of men flung about in the air by just the rustling of a pilot penetrating a building
To fall on screens as the debris of breaking news.
But his breaths . . . shattering the still down of the cheek,
And turning their picture into mist as
Eddies of the screen’s corpses . . . varieties of death that they brought them.
The spirit that became a body,
The body that was sold for the sake of a touch,
The eye that was concealed in his image
And that approached the firebrand of conflagrations.
Everyone drawing close to everyone,
Everyone,
Everyone,
Everyone.
But the thunder of their machine guns splintered them:
Corpses piled on corpses,
I mean on me,
The eyes of those in it were extinguished.
They slept in a trench of silence.
My eyes’ lids parted in a wakefulness obsessed with them.
I rose … and embraced the chill
That the screens brought me in commemoration of Stalingrad.
………………………………
Translated by William Hutchins
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC