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VENUS62 Jul 2014
Swaymvar- Wedding! With Translation in English

Kavi, tha khayalon me khoya
Dard-e -dil soch ke roya

Tab Apsara sundarsi hui prakat
Ahista se gayee Kavi ke nikat

Likhte kyun ** kavita hamesha udaas
Racho koi rachna jisme ** harsh-o- ulhas

Ghatne wali hai ghatna avismarniya
Reh jayega baki sub kuch asmarniya

Aney wali hai baraat aaj raat
Yahi kuch gyarah- barah baje ke baad

Chaand ke saath hogi chandni
Sitare layenge jhilmil roshni

Indra layenge varsha ko saath
Varun ayenge thamey badalon ka haath

Suraj layenge bas kiran ek
Teeno mil sajayenge indradhanush anek


Draupadi ke saath honge punch pandav
Shiv bhi karenge nritya tandav

Agni khud karenge havan
Halka sa jhonka denge Pavan

Patton se banegi chudiyan hari
Maang mein mitti hogi lal sindoori

Aasman mein cha jayega kala-neela sa rang
Krishna jab nachenge radha ke sang

Rachegi khoob ras leela wahan
Dekha na hoga kabhi ye jahan

Pakwan har ek hoga anvesh
Bhojan hoga bahut hi vishesh

Srishti banegi ati ati -sundar
Rachegi jab
Ambar aur dharti ka swayamvar!



Translation The Wedding!
The poet was lost in thought
Heartbroken and distraught

When appeared an Apsara ethereal
She touched his shoulder lightly

Why do you write poems full of sorrow
Do write some poems replete with joy

About to happen is an event memorable
Everything else will be forgettable

The bridegroom will ride on a chariot light
Around eleven-twelve tonight

The moon will swing in with his moonlight
The stars will twinkle on their own shining bright

Indra will bring along the rains
Varun will hold the clouds in rein

The sun will be present as a single ray
The trio will create a rainbow array

Draupadi will come with five pandav
Shiv will swirl to his Dance Tandav

Agni himself will do the Havan
Gentle breeze will be supplied by Pavan

The bangles will be made from leaves green
The color of the earth will be vermilon red

The sky will be decked in black and blue
When Krishna will dance with Radha his beloved true

There will be celebrations lavish
Mortals will be left in disbelief

The food will indeed be delectable
Each dish will be a creative spectacle!

Creation will be at her very best
When the earth and sky
will be in their union blessed.
All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Each ear another one to lie to
Each mouth another one to feed
We're all but a statistic
And a very ugly one indeed

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Hypocrites in their pedestals
As the sloths complain
The truth is hypothetical
And the self-righteous disdain

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

The sky scraping towers
The roads of traffic and rush
Beauty is only in the papers
And the tip of the artist's brush

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Cold hearts shame the winter
Causing more damage than flood
We are but the earth's splinter
And we hunger for blood

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

Tomorrow is but a conjecture
Today is what we're worth
Will our children even have a future?
Or have we aborted them by birth?

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names

We have guts for feeling
We have eyes to see
But indifference is more appealing
I hope it's just me

All things dull and normal
All people look the same
All things are but formal
With quite forgettable names
raw with love Nov 2015
(Yes, better than Harry Potter, get your pitchforks ready)

My first encounter with THG was approximately four years ago, when I had barely turned fourteen, did not consider myself bilingual and was romantically frustrated. Naturally, I made several mistakes at the time. First off, I read the series in translation, since I'm not a native English speaker, and missed out a huge chunk of the significance of the story. Then, as I said, I was romantically frustrated and thus paid such a monstrous amount of attention to the romance aspect of the story that I want to bitchslap myself. Finally, at fourteen, I was still ignorant and uneducated about so many things that I read the series, got hyped for perhaps six months or so, then forgot all about it, save for the occasional rewatch of the movies. In retrospect, this is probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, a significantly better-read person, waaay more woke, as well as socially aware, I decided to finally read the series in the original and am finally able to put my thoughts together in a coherent, educated review of the series.

The Hunger Games has continuously been compared to a number of other books and series, occasionally put down as inferior and forgettable. In those past few years I managed to read a great part of the newly established young adult dystopian genre and am able to argue that A. The Hunger Games is undoubtedly universal and unrestricted to young adult audiences and that B. it is, without the slightest shade of uncertainty, the best series written in our generation.

While many people draw parallels between The Hunger Games and, say, Battle Royale, the similarities end with the first book, which, while spectacular in execution, seems unoriginal in its very idea. As the series unrolls, however, it is hardly possible to compare it to anything, save for, perhaps, Orwell's 1984. The social depiction and the severe criticism laid down in the very basis of the story are so brutally honest that it fails my understanding how the series was ever allowed to become this popular. What starts out as a story about a nightmarish post-Apocalyptic world works up to be revealed as a cleverly veiled portrayal of our own morally degraded and dilapidated society (if you're looking for proof, seek no further: as the series was turned into several blockbuster movies, public interest was primarily concerned with the supposed love triangle rather than the bitter truths concealed in the narrative). Class segregation, media manipulation, dysfunctional governments are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the realities that The Hunger Games so adroitly mimics. If I were to dissect, chapter by chapter, all three books, I'd probably find myself stiff with terror at the accuracy of the societal portrait drawn by Collins. I strongly advise those of you who haven't read the series between the lines to immediately do so because no matter how many attempts I make to point it out to you, you simply have to read the series with an alert sense of social justice to realize that it doesn't simply ring true, it shakes the ground with rock concert amplifiers true.

Other than the plot that unfolds into a civil war by the third book (the series deals so amazingly with trauma survival and with depicting the atrocities of war that I am still haunted by certain images), the characters of the story are what makes it all the more realistic. Though Hollywood has done a stunningly good job in masking the shocking reality of the fact that these are children - aged twelve through eighteen, innocent casualties paying for the adults' mistakes; children forced into prostitution, fake relationships, children forced into maneuvering through a world of corruption, media brain-washing and propaganda.

Consider Katniss. She is a person of color (olive-skinned, black-haired, gray -eyed, fight me if you will but she is not a white person), disabled (partially deaf, PTSD-sufferer, malnourished), falling somewhere in the gray spectrum both sexually and romantically. As far as representation goes, Katniss is one of the most diverse characters in literature, period. Consider Peeta, his prosthetic leg (which, together with Katniss's deafness, has been conveniently left out of the movies) and his mental trauma in the third book. Consider Annie's mental disability. Consider Beetie in his wheelchair. Consider all the people of color, as well as the fact that people in the Capitol seem to have neglected all sorts of gender stereotypes (e.g. all the men are wearing makeup). There is absolutely no doubt that the series is the most diverse piece of literature out there. Consider this: the typical roles are reversed and Peeta is the damsel in distress whereas Katniss does all the saving.

Furthermore, the alarming lack of religion (in a brutal society reliant on the slaughter of children God serves no purpose), as well as several other factors, such as the undisputed position of authority of President Snow, is suspiciously reminiscent of the already familiar model of a totalitarian society.

The Hunger Games, in other words, is revolutionary in its message, in its diversity, in the execution of its idea, in its universality. I mentioned Harry Potter in the subtitle. While this other series has played a vital role in the shaping of my character, it has gradually receded to the back line for several reasons, one of which is how problematic it actually is. This, though, is a problem for another day. (The Hunger Games is virtually unproblematic and while it may be argued that the LGBTQ society is underrepresented, a momentary counterargument is that *** has a role too insignificant in the general picture of the story to be necessary to be delved into this supposed problem). Where I was going with this is that, at the end of the day, Harry Potter, while largely enjoyed by adults and children alike, is a children's book and contains a moral code for children, it was devised to serve as a moral compass for the generation it was to bring up. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, requires you to already have a moral compass installed in order to understand its message. It is, as I already said, a straightforward critique of a dysfunctional society, aimed at those aware and intelligent enough to pick on it.

As for its aesthetic qualities, the series is written, ominously, in the present tense, tersely and concisely, yet at the same time in a particularly detailed and eloquent manner. It lacks the pretentious prose to which I am usually drawn, yet captivates precisely with the simplicity of its wording, which I believe is a deliberate choice, made so as to anchor the story to the mundane reality of the actual world that surrounds us.

That being said, I would like to sum up that The Hunger Games is, to my mind, perhaps the most successful portrayal of the world nowadays, a book series that should be read with an open mind and a keen sense of social awareness.
aviisevil  Mar 2018
blue room
aviisevil Mar 2018
my breath is blue
cold and forgettable
in this dark room
and with my eyes closed
composed of a mind
and all its follies,
that I cannot switch off;

i am lost, yes,
bless'd with a life
i never would have
known otherwise,

of minutes, mountains and
stones, wise men; a home
and sun rise,

here on this rock
me and so many like me
will die, pretending we
never would,

consuming blood and wood
even burning the forest down
'tis his kingdom, filled with
people bad and good,

some mad and filled with
scars and broken days
then there's that who
has no need for a place,
some wear stars and some
wear no face, some are meant
to die, some meant to stay

some go away never to
come back, some find
grey days soothing as they
pass by, some live
in good-byes, and some dye
themselves, some don't cry,

some won't die, and we'd
watch them live forever,
whilst we break our lies,

i live the lies too, yes,
but that's more bless'd, in
this storm of illusion,
outside this dark room
where i bleed away bits of
me, everytime i step out,

loud noises and the clock,
to break me down,

silence louder than words,
empty air for me to drown
trapped in a circle 'round
my neck,

eyes to dream me a crown,
and a mind for the countless
worthless things i've found
gagged and bound,
in the deepest layers
miles deeper than my skin
sinking, and inking my
breath blue.
Rj  Sep 2015
Forgettable
Rj Sep 2015
Okay. I am going to talk now.
And I'm not gonna be poetic
Rhyme, or make lines or stanzas. I'm just gonna talk. Because this is MY life, and MY opinion and this is a website where I can get out MY feelings. And I shouldn't have to feel like putting up a filter. I don't feel all that special, not standing next to some people. I feel like, like I'm not someone that you'd say "wow I like your outfit" or "wow I like your voice". Because guess what. I wear lame tee shirts from football games three years ago with jean shorts because I don't have TIME or money to shop for appealing clothes to where I can express myself. I can't make an aesthetic. My parents are always telling me how much of a selfish person I used to be. So I DONT ASK for clothes anymore. If I did, it would be so out of the ordinary, the answer would be a painful no. But this isn't about clothes. It's about Never being noticed. I swear sometimes I am wearing the invisibility cloak from Harry Potter. I know quite a few people with a list TO THEIR KNEES on how many people they KNOW care about them. People they can say for SURE care about them. My list. Well you can't call two or three people a list can you? Maybe it's because I don't have those characteristics that draw people to me. I don't have that "strong presence". I don't. I am Miranda Kramer. A junior who looks more like a freshman. When I talk, people don't turn their head to look. When I speak, I find over and over again people talk over me. So, naturally, I don't talk as much as I used to. Yes, rejection is a fear of mine, and so is being ignored. Being replaceable. And YES I wrote a poem about this before, but I don't think I can stress enough that I don't have that twinkle in my eye. I don't have the cute smile that lights up the world. I can't list a single thing that makes me unique, yet I know I am. I know everyone is. But is it true or not that some people are more unique than others? Imagine a sapling. A cute, small, unique pine sapling. Now picture that sapling sitting at the root of a giant oak tree. No one sees the sapling anymore do they? Well that's how I feel compared to most everyone else. People who feel loved, who KNOW people care about you, I am so happy you have that list. I hope you keep adding to it. I'll sit here. Holding the pencil in my sweaty hand, anxious, because I can't tell if that person cares about me. Do they? Or am I forgettable? Am I forgettable? Am I? I can't really tell anymore. I can't really tell anymore
Don't read too deep into it. It's just an entry, I haven't written like this in a while. A shoutout to MF for getting me started on this rant with a great poem recently added. Anyways this isn't really for others, it's more for me
i  Mar 2014
bubble baths
i Mar 2014
at age five,
her bath is full of bubbles
and happiness.
yellow ducks floating
on the surface,
make her young soul
happy.

at age ten,
her bath is not
full of bubbles.
she does not take baths
anymore.
she showers now,
because it's faster,
and forgettable,
just like life should be.

at age fifteen,
her bath is not full of bubbles,
again.
but now, she sits in the tub,
only dull water surrounding
her body.
on the surface there
are no more yellow ducks,
they are now replaced by flowers,
which are ripped out from the hard ground along with the root,
*just like she was ripped
out from her silly dream,
along with her insane mind.
and she lived her miserable life,
just like this,
just how she did now.
prophet tongue with
stabbing perceptions
i gave him my name
while in bed.

soft white curtains
though still chamber thick
cold steel hands
and the room sliced into pieces
by morning light
but haunted by night sounds
crept into open wounds of the heart

chills.

his hand
resting on my thigh while he snores
summer bruised and adventurous
though callous youth
with his unbandaged scabbed knee
skating last night.

moment forgotten in the carride
but a stone monument staring
at me on the kitchen counter.
sorry michael.
A Mareship Oct 2013
Dinner table,
Bowls of light,
Stage fright, lilies,
No appetite,
Dark absences nibbling
Right through my eyes
Like black rabbits pulled
Out of Truman Show skies,
Provoking the question
From those sat up front –
Is this a trick you’re pulling -
Is this one of your stunts?
But no amount of smiling
Will do –
Nod all you like.
They’re onto you.

Christmas Eve,
Sister’s house,
Black eye,
Ulcerated mouth.
Divinely tickled-
By Miss World!
A pinecone and mistletoe
Christmas hurled
Down en suite toilets
Porcelain pink,
My face makes love
To the bathroom sink.

The most squalid Little Lord
In the county, me,
Summer blooms hold
No charms for me,
So I try to apply my
Favourite smile
And travel a few more
Country miles
To a chemist that doesn’t
Know my face.
I browse a bit
(Condoms, spectacles case)
Then I try to
Convince the pharmacist
That I need two
Bottles of
Gee’s Linctus.

The cruelest boyfriend
I ever had
Gives head to a toilet roll
And his fingerpads
Are bordello yellow
From greased nicotine,
This ******* in Primrose
Exhales smoke in a stream,
And I try to remember what
Buttercup said,
His baby’s breath whispers
Wilt in my head,
Something about purity
Something about loss
Something about cleanliness
Something about God
Something about something
That I should tick off as regrettable,
But one flower can make everything
So *******
Forgettable.
( drugs are bad etc, ***** based ones in particular. Alcohol is also bad, and cigarettes, and bacon, and chocolate truffles if you eat a lot of them.
No, seriously, try not to do drugs)
Awesome Annie Jul 2014
I don't know why you're so painful to me.
Breaking me down,
every time you come and go.
I'm regret to you,
a sore spot on your heart.
You only see your past when you look at me,
A reflection of the destruction your leaving caused.
Ultimate ruin in your wake.
I can never shake these shoes,
Worn Maryjanes of a girl who doesn't know how to stop loving you.
I reach for you and you pull away,
So I stopped wishing,
Learning that it never has been about me.
You called today,
6 years of absence leaving me hollow.
I don't want it,
This time I just can't.
I don't know why you're always so painful to me,
Or how I can be so forgettable.
Grace  Jun 2018
the hush hushed
Grace Jun 2018
I cant tell you how much the hush hush hurts,

the gaps,

[the deliberately left blanks]

the silences that make me scared of saying words out loud.


It's the switching of meanings that does it,

all the tip toe awkwardness

the swift, unconscious side steps.


It's the whole long stretch of silence,

the whole deliberate

accidental

hush hush of something I never even knew the name of.  


It's the casual,

forgettable

drops of slights

that I'm still turning

over and over.


It's a hush hush never intended to be malicious but

the quiet twists and tears

and so I can never tell you how much the hush hush hurts

because the silence keeps me hush hushed too.
Working through some things I guess. It's hard to address the hush hush when you know it wasn't malicious, just accidental or a result of a different time. I wonder if they even know about the hush hush? I wonder if they know they kept it? Anyway it's something I need to work through and poetry helps or something

Note: So we talked about the hush hush without words but it's okay, maybe it's how we do things best. And the hush hushed becomes a thing of vibrant, rainbow colours and it's lifting off my shoulders and I think in a glowing kind of way that maybe there's something in this that will be okay. And I wonder how you knew but for now it remains hush hushed because I can’t quite talk about it yet. I wear it instead, I wear my colours instead and maybe that speaks enough for the moment. (Fourteenth of September Two Thousand and Eighteen)
badwords  Sep 22
You Owe Me
badwords Sep 22
By day he wore a face of stone,
a man at work, a man at home.
Mid-tier, mid-forties, fading fast,
a shadow built to never last.

Unseen, unseen, the hours crawled,
his name half-heard, his voice forestalled.
Reliable. Invisible.
Forgettable. Admissible.

But night —
night gave him another skin,
a grinning mask, a skeleton grin.
Blurry selfies, pumpkin puns,
cheap delights for midnight ones.

And they laughed.
They saw.
He mattered more
than the man he’d left behind the door.

She answered louder than the rest,
late-twenties, lonely, dispossessed.
Her laughter quick, replies too fast,
his irony returned as gospel, cast.

“I know this isn’t you,” she said.
“I want the man who hides instead.”

He recoiled.
Deleted.
Ghosted.
Fled.

But silence is a mask that turns,
and absence is a fire that burns.

3:33, the phone alight,
a skeleton meme each waiting night.
3:33, a plastic hand,
a note enclosed: You’ll understand.
3:33, the offering grows —
a pumpkin smashed, its seeds exposed.

Her love became a ritual rhyme,
his jokes became a curse in time.
“You don’t get to leave,” she swore,
“You owe me you, forevermore.”

And he —
the man who sought the crowd,
who wanted laughter, not too loud,
who craved the gaze but feared the weight,
found every mask could seal his fate.

No one is innocent here, no one.
Not the trickster, not the one undone.
He wore deception like a shield,
she made obsession her battlefield.

Now only one mask still remains —
cheap plastic grin through windowpanes.
Spoopy, childish, still, absurd,
yet sharper than his final word.

The curtains gap, the silence bends,
a tilted grin that never ends.
And he knows, beneath the grin so slight:
her mask will never leave the night.

— The End —