Delighted to share my poem published today on Ink Pantry , a fabulous creative platform!
https://www.inkpantry.com/poetry-drawer-burying-the-chimera-by-daya-bhat/
Do check out this link to read my poem and other fine poetry!
Thanks editor Deborah Edgeley for publishing my verse.
Have a wonderful weekend and happy writing everyone 😊
My poem ‘lichens’ has been published here at BLUEPEPPER. Sharing the link and first few lines to my poem. Do read through for other beautiful verses, articles and stories. Thanks to the kind and inspiring editor Justin Lowe!
https://bluepepper.blogspot.com/2022/05/new-poetry-by-daya-bhat.html
Lichens
Little feet join the line
of those leaving
their sky and earth.
As roofs roll into debris
one after another
that we do nothing
is what they will remember.
The rocks . . .
Please visit the link to read the full poem. We all have been expressing this in our own way. I have tried too in this poem.
Thank you for reading and have a wonderful weekend 🙂
Trees are earth maidens, eternally grounded and looking to the sky. It seems they are born with a much significant purpose than we humans can ever think of. All we can think of is why we need to preserve them for our own selfish needs.
Other than being useful to others they must have some purpose of their own why they are born. Though life for trees starts deep down the earth as tiny seeds, and then roots, once they break the earth only sky is the limit. Trees must be the only creation that are half in the earth and half above. If we see a healthy and beautiful tree it’s only because lot of hard work happens hidden from our eye.
This was the first thing that came to mind when Light journal was themed on ‘wisdom’. What better wisdom than of a tree😌
Sharing my poem astute which appeared in Light.
Happy weekend and happy writing to you all!
I don’t know what about September it is that makes me think not like me. It seems September lends a new dimension to my mind’s eye. It’s that time when monsoon passes the baton to winter. Rain washed thoughts struggle for some Sun, and a little prayer to a rare bright fading day escapes me, wishing the evening lingered a bit more on the photos on my wall. Sunset and a wandering mind … how can anyone be averse to a verse…
Go slow
Sept ember glow
there’s still time
for the Sun to walk past.
There’s still light in the sky
and the stars
not in a hurry for the show.
Read them before they fade
tales
the brown of my eyes
the bow of my brows behold.
Go slow
Sept ember glow
there’s still blue in the sky
and the tide
not in a hurry for the storm.
Go slow
Sept ember glow
may the silky dusk
golden my wall of fame
and the sepia
not in a hurry to steal a wink.
If this were to fit in a haiku…
sunset swept pictures
September glow on my wall
one more fading day
How else does a cyclone-hit heart do it with a haiku!
September, if not anything teaches us to break into verse and haiku.
Happy week and happy soul con versing!
Hegemony
Hyperboles are iced cakes in virtual markets.
Well-manicured monopoly
only hate in finger nails...no blood trails
only the lust for omnipresence in a wart-sized world.
Sell what sells best
names look good in bold italics.
You know the worth of your name.
Here your fingers burn a night lamp
and there a door opens to the wolves.
You have nothing to lose
you never belonged to any of these rooms.
But when you have to answer that eye
locked in fear to the rosewood door
look away...walk away.
What free tongue
that can’t simply liberate itself from its own dark alleys
that has no vision beyond its own leaning.
Leeways of an eclipsed moon
growls of the sorry moorland
strands of silk lost in the ruffian bronze.
You must know
the house you live in is not yours alone.
How many suns more we need to see together.
How many crops of bajra we need to reap together.
Here we are. You and I.
I’m pinching my eye for a horseshoe
and you burn the last straw.
Here we are. You and I
one soil
one allegiance.
No crannies
no room for split talk.
Belong
to earn the ground beneath your feet
and then it doesn’t take long to love.
Well
how far stretched can a war be with oneself.
(published in "New Asian Writing" and "Indiana Voice Journal")
Identity
I wouldn’t call you a nymph of the Orkney folklore
or a mermaid of the mythical sea.
Nothing fancy about losing both worlds!
Living on the periphery does strange things to you
a line of fiction
a horizon
a fringe
time, nothing but a pretty satin ribbon in your fingers
dress the falcon’s wings
the Pegasus cloud and your own ashen feet.
an empty epoch
ravaged sinful torn sullied.
a grey fable
and a glow-worm city turns into forest fire.
The devils dance on your brows
the calm
the frolic
an illusion of the yaksha.
Back in the yard
drum beats
sweat beads
and rivers turn crimson.
I wouldn’t call you a genie of the lamp
nothing fairy about a wanton wish
a rub of the thumb
nothing fairy about turning a kingdom into a sepia map
a scroll of lost identity
nothing fairy about letting the moths eat the borders.
(published in Indiana Voice Journal)
db's poetryscape 