My poem “My City” published at MasticadoresUSA

I am very chuffed to have my poem, My City published at MasticadoresUSA. Thank you so much Gabriela and team MasticadoresUSA.

As haze envelopes my city at night
its ugly scars diminish and disappear
the luminosity of moonlight shines not
on traces of death of morality...

Please read rest of the poem here.

Poem and Poet

ben Alexander, who blogs at The Skeptic’s Kaddish, launched Poetry Partners a while ago, inviting fellow bloggers to send him a poem of theirs. He publishes it on his blog alongwith a personal poem inspired by each featured piece.

This is the poem I sent him.

I am a poem

I am a poem, read me
syllable by syllable
let the vowels roll
around your tongue at will
immerse yourself in
the free flow of rhythm
undulating whimsically
in its own rhyme
the meter; sometimes
measured. But oft not!

Read me at leisure
recite me aloud
let me suffuse your
entire being with joy
come alive as you
discover hidden nuances
let my darkness
illuminate your soul
cry in empathy
at my pain
allow giggles to
spontaneously erupt.

Don't try too hard
to unwrap the enigma I am
study me sip by sip
then come back
to gather more in gulps
let the meanings remain
couched in obscurity
savour the beauty
of words strung with care
the more you imbibe
the more you will come back
addicted to unravelling
me bit by bit

Decipher me at dawn
devour me at dusk
peruse me compulsorily
as you breathe
once you become one with me
you will realise life is poetry
to be carried in your heart.

A poem in two parts by ben Alexander of ‘The Skeptic’s Kaddish’

I. Blank Verse

The note was left taped to my computer
screen; 'We've got your Verse,' it read, 'If you want
her back, you'll do exactly as we say.
We'll be in touch soon.' Poet that I am,
I immediately knew contacting
the police would bring about a cliché
(actually... dare I say, 'prosaic'?)
storyline. I'd have to free Verse myself.


II. Free Verse

I fancy myself a poet, even
teaching my child to rhyme words
in different languages, sometimes
across different languages;
words being the primary currency
I p(l)ay with for understanding ~
pushing them into thin metal slots,
pulling the little levers,
watching as cheap balls with comprehension
and assembly instructions roll their way
around and out my mouth.

Smooth plastic capsules,
with neat cracks through the middle,
perfectly round, entirely unnatural,
of course, but so easy to spit out through
my teeth, lies that they are.

I've been trying to stuff foreign terms
into vending machines, even filing them
down to size - it never works
for me.

Worse yet, I was once beyond excited to see
a malformed plastic spheroid,
dented into an uneven, ugly crescent,
wobbling down the tube,
but it got stuck
halfway down, and the blasted machine
wouldn't express it.

I gag and choke on reality.

Sometimes…

Sometimes an idea flits across
like a butterfly
in my hurry to capture it
I end up damaging its ethereal wings

sometimes in the middle of a chore
the ubiquitous bulb lights up
I drop everything
as I grab my phone

sometimes during my walk
I hear a susurration,
a slight whisper
I chant it feverishly
afraid to lose it

sometimes a tune is
like an earworm
playing on and on
till I release it
on a clean sheet of paper

sometimes worry furrows my forehead
at such a time
writing is the balm
that can smoothen my brow

sometimes words gush out of my pen
as if a floodgate has been breached
refusing to be contained

sometimes I have to use
all my persuasive powers to plead
with the elusive expression
which wallows in wilderness

sometimes a thought
hits like a sledgehammer
leaving me dazed
with its forcefulness

sometimes a spoken word, a written phrase
triggers a barrage of outpouring
difficult to stem

sometimes injustice does not let me sleep
till bloodshot eyes have wept
crimson words of regret

sometimes blood and gore
leave me shaking and shivering
and the shaky handwriting
steadies my wobbly world

sometimes seething white hot anger
shapes each word with precision
picking correct expressions just so

sometimes a gurgle
of innocent laughter or a genuine smile
brightens my day
and it is there for all to see

sometimes a forgotten memory
nudges the fingers
to reclaim its place
to be recorded for posterity

sometimes a conversation
sparks creativity
which is so original
yet mundane

sometimes sitting still
in a pocket of peace
an idea takes birth
that has to be celebrated

sometimes a night of passion
seeps a bit into the open
despite my inept effort
to keep it under wraps

sometimes what could be
fills me with wistful longing
daydreaming that distant dream

sometimes…
oh well! each baby is different
and decides to be born in her own way!

Reworked an old poem for dVerse OLN.

To love!?

Pristine white marble
sculpted immaculately
one of the wonders of the world
symbol of eternal love
…or is it?

What if
it was not love but guilt
that drove the emperor to proclaim
his consort was the best
and create a tomb so grand
as penance and
not out of adoration!

What conspiracies and collusions
marked those halcyon days
was there jealousy or deviousness
do these sun dappled arches hold some secrets?

As he lay in the fort
watching his labour of love
did these walls record his regret
were his lovelorn sighs heard by the steps
what went through his mind
in the cloistered solitude,
while plotting and planning went behind his back!

The young third wife bore
fourteen children in twenty years
was there a design behind it!
did her beauty and cleverness
lead to jealousy and scheming
coming in the way of her longevity!

Now they lie cold side by side
under the cold marble
the palace intrigues
and machinations
lie quietly buried too.

All that the world can see
is a monument of love
as lovers visit and sigh at the beauty
on full moon lights
holding hands and pledging lifelong fealty;
is it to love or to the idea of love!

Written for dVerse and Sadje. Today’s host, Merril says: You may write about any object—a family heirloom, a museum piece, a monument, or a palace. The choice is yours, but there must be some link to history and the past. (Or to current controversies over some artifacts held in museums.)There is no length or style requirement.