‘Faded Blue Sky’ ~Jasmine Sond – Vol. I, Issue 4

Student Speaks

Poet: JASMINE SOOD

FADED BLUE SKY

She feels so isolated so invisible, deserted and grey

And you being her friend left her in one corner to decay

She did everything for you stepping out of the boundary

But now she’s the one who is suffering for trusting you blindly

 

She’s the dumb one, she’s just a fool; don’t you think so?

She’s just a piece of trash, so you throw her out the window

She’s the one caring for others but she never gets anything in return

She makes everyone smile even if on the inside her soul is burnt

 

She always calls you up even when she doesn’t needs to

How many times has it been when you’ve done the same for her too?

Now she knows what she means to you, which is just equal to nothing

You think she’ll never know about it but unfortunately you’re wrong darling

 

There are only storms and hurricanes in life, there are no rainbows

And now your little fake show is over, it’s time for the curtains to close

She has learnt her lesson, now she knows that no one in this world is true

And this time she’ll do what she needs to and not what she wants to

 

Now she won’t let anyone get close enough to her in the first place

Because in the end they only leave scars behind which no one can erase

She’s better left alone; she doesn’t need your sugar-coated friendship

She’s been betrayed too many times, she’s used to loosing her grip

 

You say she’s too complicated, you’ll probably never understand her

You’ve made her life black and white; you’ve stolen all her color

You don’t notice the loneliness and sorrow that fill her green eyes

Just like a small flower in a dry desert under the faded blue sky

‘Farmer’ ~ Ramesh Tibile – Vol. I, Issue 4

Poetic Musings

Poet: RAMESH TIBILE

FARMER

Zero literate my position

Neither pension nor fund for ration.

Piles problems over problem

Being tired so retired farmer of Nation.

Now, I am old enough

To match with new world

Wasting time watching T. V.

Getting up late displaying dullness,

Eating unwanted “Pizza or Burger”

To invite guest of indigestion.

And ……

Making show of Hi! Fi!

Having no culture to exhibit.

I am happy with my state

Being ignorant of all that.

Go bed earlier to rise so

To develop good practices for health.

I take bath and then tea,

To leave the “House” to darshan God.

Take a full round to see nothing

But to kill my time.

Return again to have lunch

Though no teeth to crunch.

Just lie on bed avoiding sleep then,

So the night no weep.

Everyone cares me grudgingly

Talks with me complainingly.

So I request Thee from my heart,

Let me calmly forever depart.

‘Missive’ ~Nitish Nair: Poetic Musings – Vol. I, Issue 4

Poet: NITISH NAIR

MISSIVE

The desert night murmurs,

Sounds of silence and somnolence

punctuated by muffled sighs,

Solidified by the power of grief,

A wind whispering through the dunes,

Meandering, fickle river of air

gently nudges the day’s oppression –

a stifling envelope of heat –

towards the ocean of yesteryears,

Yet another day brimming with

the toil of survival evaporates

into a serene nocturnal embrace,

Stars, flickering crystals embedded

in the blackest of velvet,

Astral abodes of ancestors,

Too distant to seemingly matter,

Nevertheless, ages of benevolence

softly drizzle on earthly tableau,

Quickly absorbed by a parched truce,

Fragile, precious in its darkened delicacy…

Swayed! Jolted! Shattered!

Ethereal fabric sundered by

menacing whine and smoking tails

of torrential pain, parochial

in intent of terrestrial annihilation,

Launched from cold metal tubes

supported on rigid mounts,

Iron or flesh-and-bone,

Operated by unfeeling hands,

Guided by minds long dead,

Caring for nought but a crescendo

of distilled, instilled fear,

Erupting in a calculated coda

of targeted and collateral damage,

Geysers of sand, mortar, humanity –

Yellowstone for the morbid and damned –

Proof that justice has been served

a la carte, itemised and priced by past crime,

One final meal of self-righteous vengeance

until hungry bloodlust rises again.

‘Kadamba Tree’ ~Chris Mooney Singh – Vol. I, Issue 4

Poet: CHRIS MOONEY SINGH

KADAMBA TREE

It stands outside my room
a ghost in the mist from the past,
this once-green hotel for bats.

They should be searching out fruits
like yellow-knitted pom poms.
The cold has chased them off.

There’s no life for fruit flies,
dead in their sarcophagi; neither gnat
nor pilgrim butterfly is hunting

kadam-bloom cups of attar,
sticky with oil. These days, no one
has time to distil the fragrance.

If only there was the hint of a flute
in the mist, yet no blue god
cavorts in his boyish amusement

to steal the milkmaids’ saris
from the river verge and drape them
upon the kadamba. I can only go

to the museum for a Krishan lila
with gopis, or a terracotta kadam,
modelled with monkeys and birds.

That tree of love, that youth and a girl
are symbols of what should be
climbing the life-force in the kadam.

Why do I look at the kadamba
and see the life-lines in bark?
I have climbed this tree before.

‘Jamun Tree’ ~Chris Mooney Singh – Vol. I, Issue 4

Poet: CHRIS MOONEY SINGH

JAMUN TREE

You are not in the mood
to talk today, despite
your commanding height,
your thick tough trunk
good for railway sleepers,
your windbreak stance
at the side of the garden.

Is it the winter fog,
or those irate peacocks
screeching off after leaving
dog-like droppings
at your feet? It seems
you would prefer
we show decorum..

Grouch of an old maid
you have been living
with the family
far too long. So we tiptoe by,
as if past a room
smelling of underpants
and old brassieres
drying on a radiator.
What can we say about the old
we’re taught to respect?

Is it because this is
the cold dark time when
you feel fruitless before
your purple bullets,
like sour soap,
the size of olives
have yet to plump up
the thin ends of your twigs?

It’s said you helped
Lord Ram survive
14 years in the jungle,
that you’re the colour
of Lord Krishna’s skin;
and a cure for sour turns
of the liver and even
diabetes. Yes, you are the tree
of medicines, yet not lauded
like the pipal or banyan
those reigning patriarchs,
noted for sheltering philosophers.

No jamun, you are
a sorry old gripe in the midst
of winter, luring some upward
to shake free your raining fruits,
men willing to be boy-rustlers again,
to climb all over an old maid’s limbs.

Yes tongues will be stained
to complicent purple
and gums dyed in the colour of love.
You are not helpless,
branding your chosen
and can tell them off:

“Hey! don’t you forget
what I gave to you
from boyhood to manhood,
what I taught in the darkness
underneath the moon.
What I fed you on,
what I led you towards in knowledge
of the fruit of your loins.

Don’t play with me, boy,
I will expose those deeds
hidden in the secret garden
of the family hermitage.
Let’s not pretend
we are so innocent
and let’s also be frank.
I remind you again
through the purple stain of your theft.
Don’t forget who I am.”