Great Land
History, Inspiration, Legend, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry

The Great Land

Standing in the land of the great Apaches

Midst blooming wild poppies

and the mammoth elephant grasses,

thinking of the dream that once Martin Luther had.

May be the days of  chivalric Camelot are over,

as I heaved reclining on the grand arm chair;

vicious winds from the North gushed 

echoing footsteps of a massive feet

opening a narrow pass for the

grim shadow of Lincoln to flicker by,

leaving behind trails of the Fallen Soldiers

on the path once trodden by the

fierce Indian Tribes.

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Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Love, Nature, poetry

A Glance

 

A glance is enough for the heart to beat

to  transform naivety into shrewdness 

of some kind, many long for it in the ancient past

to moisten their dry parched youth, as the case

it never befalls where it ought to, yearnings

fossilized froze in the corner of heart, birds

never chirp on the skeletal trees, insects don’t

dwell in the deceased fallen barks, dimpled

cheek cupids doesn’t appear for those who

always wait and sigh, no ballads are sung

on the onset of  youth, nor a tear on its passing,

some do age without the grace of a glance

and leave the grim world  still longing for

 one glance.

 

Persian Laila
Humour, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, satire, wit,

The Persian Laila

Having feasted past-midnight, PersianLaila got up lazily at the stroke of twelve. Wearing her sparkling tiara, she rose with a numbing headache resultant of a hangover,

Caused by the left-over French champagne that she drank greedily from the China glass of her Benevolent master.

Her master’s darling she occupied a special place in his cozy lap and abhorred the site of her pot-bellied mistress,

For Laila considered her as a staunch-competitor and purred when ever she dared come near especially at long intervals of midnight drinks .

She would adorn herself on the left thigh of master and lick heavenly nectar only from the corner his pinkish wrinkled hands.

A site to behold midst bubblingchampagne and the smoke of expensive Cuban cigars. Her blue eyes drunk with envy and rage, she fought hard and with everyone for her master’s attention.

On rare occasions of evening strolls, she would walk with snobbish air and displeased countenance on the cobbled streets of rustic New York

Looking down with disdain on all other pussies in the town as she deemed them to be too causal and boring in the appearance,

For Laila came from the Persian peninsula from the house of the grand pasha of Azerbaijan, her great-grandmother the dark-eyed Hoorie was a favorite of the sultan-Suleiman

And what a cherished presence on all matters important of every concern but was slain on one moonless night by the jealous ladies of Sultan’s Harem,

All were fine, till troubles started to brew, for master was a man of excess and one Persian damsel was not enough and yearned for another beauty to occupy the vacant right thigh!

So brought a petite French this time, Annabella who had a legacy of her own, for she came-from the family of Master pastry chef, Monsuier Jean Paul employed in the house of King Louis XII

Both pussycats couldn’t look each other in the eye for both was endowed with looks and style to charm any.

One fine day while the master was away, in a brawl with each other both got their tails entangled, the mistress had enough and decided to sail one of them away…

And who better than the Persian Laila, for she was never in her good books. Hence a plan was hatched and poor Laila was swiftly hurried off to live with an old woman in quite a corner

Of the town and master was told a tale of how she eloped with neighbor’s Valentino who had-no history to boast of. 

Annabella now the reigning queen while Laila spent her time remembering the days of glory gone by.

missing
History, Literature, Nature, poetry, Uncategorized

Metamorphosis

I grew up beyond the grey walls….

Walls that changed hues under varied spells,

mama would strictly keep me inside.

 

The thick silver parapets adorned tiny holes,

black ashen specks from where I marveled

at the cruel oddity of the world.

 

A faded sepia of Papa hung at a crooked

angle-tilted towards outside,shadowing

other picture-frames.

 

The grim monsoons brought spree of life

stamping on foundations of boundless

hedge, spreading its tentacles…

 

Vile serpentine vines of bougainvillea invaded

sacred space, by keeping me in restraints

stealthily crawling into me.

 

I see scaly lizards licking the swollen damp

crusts of the walls, that now turned

purplish hue, squeaking hushly;

“papa zedes, papa zedes

papa zedes, papa zedes”

 

Terrified of clicking sounds,every monsoon

I meticulously filled up fissures with 

Papa’s old black and whites.

 

Once smacked across the sugar face smiling,

I always beamed when I sobbed inside,

tongue at loss of words….

I covered the last fissure with the only picture 

I had of Papa.

 

Forever barricading myself with-in walls, I

metamorphosed into silver, a mass of

cemented blood in concrete limbs.

Fortifying myself of the lingering echoes…

“papa zedes, papa zedes

papa zedes, papa zedes”

 

 

Books, Literature

Five Greatest Story-Tellers

O.Henry

If there is one writer who inspired me to write, it is William Sydney Porter known by his pen name O.Henry.   A great twister of words and language. No other writer played with language as much as he. His made extensive use of used wit and sarcasm in his tales. His clever plot-twists, use of cliff hangers made him the master of short-story genre. Born in 1862 North Carolina, he begin his career as a pharmacist. But his serious literary career took off while serving a sentence on charges of embezzlement. Some of  his most admired works are The Gift Of Maggie, The last leaf, The Pendulum & The Ransom of Red Chief.

Guy de Maupassant

It was a chance encounter that I stumbled on Le hora short story at cousins’s house. What a brilliant horror story, it literally spooked me for nights. Henri Rene’  Albert Guy de Maupassant was born in 1850 in France. His own experience in the Franco-Persian war became the setting of most of his stories. He brilliantly portrayed the suffering and tragedy of country folks. His stories also reflect his own despise of rich and bourgeois. His notable works are The Necklace, Le Horla & Boule de Suif.  In his later life he suffered from a mental illness and died in a mental asylum in 1892.

Leo Tolstoy

Leo Tolstoy without any doubt is the father of the short-story genre. His works often reflect the Russian social milieu and the spiritual dilemma that he himself faced in his life. Born as Count Lyov Nikolayevich Tolstoy in 1828, Russia, he drew heavily from his experiences. Despite born in privilege as a aristocrat he very realistically portrayed the plight of peasants and the vast gulf between the rich and the poor. Although he is renowned as great novelist and credited with literally masterpieces such as , War and Peace, Anna Karenina & The Death of Ivan Ilyich, however I most enjoy his short-stories. His short-stories remain a great comfort to me in my hours of darkness and moral crisis. If you are literature lover than the works of Tolstoy is must on your shelves.

Rabindranath Tagore

The noble laureate Rabbinate Tagore remains as one of the most influential Indian writer. His works are notable for ordinary characters placed in extraordinary situation. His stories reflects his own surroundings and people. Most of his work is penned against the backdrop of British imperialism in India. His protagonists very often voice his take on the nationalist movement and woman empowerment. I am drawn to his stories partly because of the strong female characters. I personally feel no other writer in literature has given so much space to women as Rabindranath Tagore. The bard of Bengali Literature as he is fondly called, he redefined the Indian Literature. He truly remains a rare literary gems, his most famous tales are, Kabuliwala, The Postmaster & Hungry Stones. 

Edgar Allen Poe

No list of short-story writers is complete without mention of the great Edgar Allen Poe.  The great American writer known for his tales of macabre and dark remains as one of the most prolific writer of all times.  His life and death like many of his most famous works remains a mystery. One of the first short-story writers, he compressed the art of novel into stories. Many attribute the birth of detective and science fiction to him. Poe was born in 1809 in Boston and led a life marred by financial woes and instability. The master of Gothic fiction, he abhorred the transcendentalism of eighteen century. To name a few , The Tell-Tale Heart, The Black Cat, The Masque of the Red Death, The oval portrait are some of  his most notable works.

Ram's arrival
Legend, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry

Ram’s Arrival (Ramayan)

The sacred sounds of thousand conch shells

piercing through the eerie silences of deafening 

decades, a mammoth Himalayan cloud bursted 

in the Northern horizons over the legendary

kingdom of Ayodhya on the banks of

fabled Sarayu River.

 

The thundering clouds wrestled, the wombs

of giant Earth quivered, the regal blue-eyed

peahens ruffled their gilded

ruby feathers;

 

The sunken plants sprouted, oozing out their

heads to catch a glimpse of the exquisite face

of Sita with a silken complexion of molten-lava

daughter of king Janka of Mithila whose

whose beauty  launched thousand

battle-ships…

 

Adorned in the victory lap of the majestic

embellished golden elephants, swimming

across the seas far-far away from the

ghostly dark dungeons of decadent

Ravana’s sinful Lanka.

 

After slaying  Ravana’s ten monstrous

heads for the atrocious sins of holding,

his young queen captive.

 

Crowned prince Rama step a foot on the lush

lands of Ayodhya, where gilded golden domes

erected bowed to salute his triumphant

arrivals, after the exiles of the fourteen

extensive summers and winters.

 

Ancient gulmohar trees lowered their laden

branches and fluttered leaves like bells of

mythical sun temples;

 

A tear swelled up in the eyes of Rama

looking at the solar dynasty of his fore-fathers

banished by his own kin, reduced to

dwell in sinister dense woods chosen

for menial chores.

 

Rama knew the challenges that lie ahead,

sufferings he must withstand, answers he

must offer, the paths he must trod while 

 keeping his ideals supreme.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

desire mightier
feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Inspiration, Literature, Love, Nature, poetry, Self-Help, woman

No Desire Is Mightier

I know not…

Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?

As I stood on a tortured sea-shore

and cast my eye on the swollen waves

passionately  kissing my naked feet

making love to me with a brutish force

taking me in its azure vinyl embrace

slowly grasping my flaming flesh with

a fiery I’ve never known before,

an uproar a stir in my fragile body

exhausted since centuries of decay

the foamy saline waters entering in me

through all nook and corners, fissures and holes

mixing in all the violent blues with the

crimson reds, crawling stealthily like million

serpents, wriggling gushing upwards

Oh! a sensation a loud roar within

a rapture somewhere, an euphoric elation

an electric jolt worth thousands bolts!

My enslaved body in an act of consummation

so strong, my heart-ached, soul-shuddered

at the violation so brutal, like a hapless bird

caught in a nib of a savage Falcon from the

far-east, I let it happen without any contest

Why? Because I possessed it too and let loose

the cinders of  ancient fire burning in me

for I didn’t surrender, and let it go on without

a single doubt or shame nor did I curse

the gods above, knowing that no desire is

mightier than the other, for yearnings

have the same frenzy everywhere.

But I know not…

Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?

 

 

 

 

 

wild flowers
Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Inspiration, Literature, Love, Nature

I Am A Wildflower

I may not be the exquisite rose of your French orchids,

or the fragrant Jasmine of your manicured lawns.

A wildflower of some unknown species, yes I am of a wild tribe!

The type that grows on the sides of your very dirty roads and

muddy paths, the kind whose seeds are never sowed

and fruits shall never be reaped.

 

Do you know that in my womb, I too carry a fragrance?

A pungent smell which never made it to the bottle of any perfume.

No lover ever came knocking on my humble door. No never!                      

Such abhorrent is my appearance that my beauty is never a joy to any.

My petals are never given a chance to kneel at the altar of any shrine,

for the pundits prophesied, it would have been blasphemy of some kind!

 

But I continued to sway when the cold winds would blow and

bloom whenever the benevolent Sun would shine.

I flourished, even when the florists at my site continued to whine

I thrived when the rains were scarce at an hour when suddenly the eclipse

took over all the Suns, and the Moon simply refused to show up.

 

So you ask me why?  For I possess a zeal, a yearning to live, so strong that even

when I am trampled on your dirty roads, I never cease to grow….

and continue to grow and like a phoenix rise from the ashes.

I am a wildflower, the kind that grows on the sides of muddy paths.

Lolita
feminine, Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Humour, Literature, Love, poetry, satire, sensual

Another Loilta ( Revised)

Stretching apart her thin toothpick legs 
Sat robustly on his stunted arthritis legs
Suckling chocolate lolly-pop euphorically 
Careless licking melted cocoa from corners of lips 
Droplets of sweat accumulated on the forehead
A raw beauty in the care, guardian of
Venus two steps behind womanhood
Could feel the-hard bony rib cage against
His sagging rotten flesh, pulse palpating swift 
Impoverished  bosoms like two sand dunes, 
adorning  emaciated slender waist, yet 
not evolved into any shape, resting on a thin frame 
Could sense a ruffle beneath trousers
Serpents crawling underneath, slowly gradually
Raising  heads out of Ecdysis, sloughing old skin
Squishy, velvety pulsating reddish fleece 
Held his tremoring hands back, a young passion 
Taking birth in his heart, an urgent yearning to 
Explode with rapture at this rare rendezvous 
Odorless Scent of a young body filled his nostrils 
Like on opiate he fell into an ecstasy unparalleled
ready to  burst like a volcanic rapture, dormant for 
Seventy years, a malady damping elated spirits
Frightened maybe he has forgotten the tricks
Nervous fisted his hands with a fractured ego
Mustering courage extends forth sweaty palms
Trying to feel the touch of virgin demoiselle
Heart missing a beat gushed into million stars.
Little snake-lings crawled back to the hood.  

Open Kitchen
Humanity, Kindness, Compassion, Literature, Nature, poetry, Self-Help

An Open Kitchen

The majestic oak trees just shed some woods

the lush baby spinach leaves oozing out of hoods.

In the large pristine green pastures equally growing,

the youthful wild umbrella mushrooms wooing 

and with the raw Ramona tomatoes in my sight 

I am sure that my stew is going to be really bright. 

While preparing stew in a pot it started to slowly rain,

but my mom told me no hard-work ever goes in vain.

The ever benevolent Mother-Earth as my open kitchen

and while stew simmered,the humble deer also pitched in.