Without poetic seed there won't be prose. The entire network of branches, twigs, flowers, fruits and leaves is nothing but a commentary on the small poetic seed. So all ye wannabe writers, nurture the poet in you, who understands the value of pause in life, who moves slowly to watch everything, sight and smell everything. Brushstrokes of poetry softly touch the soul without disrupting its restful muse and bring out nuggets of love, compassion, harmony and peace. All content © Sandeep Dahiya
Friday, October 26, 2018
Thursday, October 25, 2018
Holding a dream in my fist
Staring at the
misty past
and forcing
myself not to see the future eager to unfold itself too fast,
I wave at the nostalgic
strains still beckoning and faintly alive,
How I wish I
could dive
back into the
pools of the past,
To have my
moments last
at a place
that held me in its cradle soft,
That pious embrace which still holds me aloft!!
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
Love loops on an early winter day
The mighty lord whispers in a softest voice,
My son grow thou strongest and sire chances for those without any choice!
***
Though your enemy, I am sweet!
My neck thus deserves a softer treat!
***
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
Prose in praise of poetry.
Without
the seed of poetry there won't be any prose. Just like without the tiny seed
there won’t be a tree. The canopy, the full foliage of the tree is just an extension
of the dream lying with its realistic potential inside the small seed. The
elaborate network of trunks, branches, twigs, flowers, fruits and leaves is
nothing but a commentary on the small poetic seed. So all ye wannabe writers,
nurture the poet in you, who understands the value of pause in life, who moves
slowly to watch everything, sight and smell everything. Whose senses are open
to the inclusive interplay of wonderful harmonies of the supreme song, the universe,
the one song. Brushstrokes of poetry
softly touch the soul without disrupting its restful muse and bring out the
nuggets of love, compassion, harmony and peace. If you are a poet by nature
then you have the potential to be anything because all these elaborate
extensions of your life, your dreams, your professional and personal goals,
your milestones, the world around you, all these and more are nothing but a reflection
of that poetic pure seed. Love yourself as a poet.
Autumnal Awakening
Oh God, that Hollowness!
Oof! That soul entombed in misery,
The ragamuffin, the beggar,
Great potter’s potsherd he was,
Those decaying, yellow teeth
splashed and sprayed this world
with misery and incurable jaundice.
His trifle weight could outweigh
the fat chickens over the globe,
And eyes ever so colourless
could gobble down springs all.
The ears like the deepest gorges,
could accommodate a billion sympathies
and countless words soft,
The tongue would talk to millions,
if the opportunity arose,
Alas, the milling humanity around
pretended not to be visible at all,
People scampered past with the
careful eyes of a cautious thief;--
saving both their conscience and money.
His emotions lay buried deep
in his famished breast,
This was his treasure trove,
He kept it safe,
Afraid to take them out,
lest they slay these as well,
His bleeding heart would have
painted this planet in gloomy red.
A dog, cat poop, wrappers, dust, snoot, phlegm,
And he just another addition to these,
Almost indiscernible among his insect kingdom,--
Dusting, rottening petty cast-out.
The accusing emptiness,
And the hallowed universe around,
Holding his mocking lighthouse,
Throwing feeble, exposing light over the
fallacies lolloping under the abounding waves
of the booming sea of hilarity and well-being.
The Feminizing Man
Fragrance scented and colours prismy,
Flowers seduce with surrendering softness
and intoxicating aesthetics,
This alluring, sweet poison slays many,
Parasitically it creeps into
the hibernating, sleepy male vitality,
And the red, gushing blood of sense and sanity
turns into silly swirls of bluish oblivion and foolish
torrents,--
A marvelous decolourisation of
flesh, vision and potency!
The woman does the same with the man,--
Her moves lie under the surface,
letting loose tremors and shakes of
tamed beast clinging to feeble, unmanly chains:
the emotions, cooings and the mellowed stone,
Then she slaughters the prey most manly,
Bravo! Salutes to the femininity:
hardest heart under the shield softest.
Weakness has its strength in vulnerability,
Don’t mistake power by the steel in muscles,
Soft flowers and seductive women
thrive on the dew shower of temptations,
Eyes thirsty, pining senses;--
The altars of the insected, infatuated masculinity,
More the offerings on the altar,
more the Goddess thrives,
So many wither to bloom a smile
in her sly eyes.
But her demands from the worshipper
are never satiated,--
Greedy Goddess!
She thus hunts around,
But greed can never make one complete,
So she just remains a fraction,
Men cut themselves to the same
to complete her missing portion,
Happy Goddess then
laughs at the follies of the maimed.
Black bee, man sacrifice to
prove the worth of an ounce of femininity,
Rivers eat mountains, while the stone
cherish the fluidity of the majestic masseur,
The woman meanders to fragment the man,
Making round, harmless, coddle-able pebbles.
As the feminine apostles web around,
The caught caterpillar hums the songs of love,
The spider salivates and chuckles,
The trap of seduction,
The cobwebs of death,
The river thus triumphantly
rolls on with mighty boulders,
The song of macabre swirling
among the torrential giggle and macabrous moan.
Femininity wins through its weakness,
The flowers smile and bloom on showers of tears,
The woman makes the man a means to her end,
Travels on his strong back
to reach her destination
and
find the purpose of her life.
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