Poetry is the language of the soul, and each soul is unique, as is its muse. Therefore each poem is unique. If you are a poet, take pride in this. And congratulate yourself, especially today – for today is the World Poetry Day. On the occasion, Literature Studio is celebrating too. Here are some poems by poets hailing from different parts of India. Do take your time to read each poem and appreciate the individuality, for each poem is a different experience altogether.
The Woodcutter by Manu Das
The last swing was without finality made,
The log cleaved in two, in open halves fell apart,
To the sudden stillness of unswung blade,
As shadows grew, and men of labour began to depart.
He leaned gently upon his axe, though,
For all I could see he was straight and taut,
Chest bare, heaving as it would before work unfinished, steady and slow,
Not from weary winding down of breath and thought.
I gave his day’s work a spiteful glance,
Leaves that trembled and spoke to high winds,
Seemed not to be leaves, lying still on the trunks fallen stance,
No more to sway, or break falling rain, above the cuckoo’s wings.
He gave me a forceful look, clear and,
Unafraid of his disposition, drawing words to parry,
“The wood within was sick, you must understand,
There was no more life in it, no more strength to carry,
The weight of this bark, in the coming rains.”
I lent ear, then nodded, in quiet resign,
“I have seen it as a sapling, young and eager,
to grow. Its bough was straight, but then curved in design,
All the better, to stand with time, then did I wager.”
“Some start straight” said he in gruff return,
“and bend with time, some start bent,
And are straightened, by wind and sun, in turn,
In the end I do what I must, before the day is spent.”
He laid his palm, cracked and rough,
Upon his axe, smooth in hilt,
And went his way, having said enough,
For the stars were out, and the porch light lit.
I nudged the jagged stump, to see if it gave way,
The root held its own,
I shook my head, would it have stood if I had my say?
Could I have stopped the wood cutters axe, had I known…
About Manu Das: There is poetry created for its own sake, and that created as a means to face one’s life. In the latter, the spectrum ranges from sheer escapism to a conscious effort at drawing from experiences, however small, to create verse and derive a clarity of thought to forge ahead. In truth, I think the best of poems, or any creative effort, are combinations of both, in various degrees. I am a surgeon by profession, but I love poetry. It liberates us and in so doing imparts a gentle wisdom to reduce our fallibilities and persevere on the road to better things.
रड़क by Rohit Sharma
होता है मिलन बारिश का पत्तों से मगर,
रह जाती है रड़क कुछ दिल में
बारिश के भी, पत्तों के भी !
बुझाती प्यास कुछ पत्तों के बदन की
कुछ पिघल गए नरमाहट से इसकी,
बरसता बेधड़क है हर बरस
है जाता कहाँ नीर इसका ?
प्यासी है मिट्टी भी
रह जाती है रड़क कुछ दिल में
बारिश के भी, ज़मीन के भी !
हुआ पानी क्यों नहीं मीठा
समुन्दर की कड़वाहट का,
ना गिला था बादलों से कोई
था बरसा रिमझिम पानी भी
रह जाती है रड़क कुछ दिल में
बारिश के भी, समुन्दर के भी !
फिरा झूमता कभी झड़ी में,
कभी पावस भी लगी दिलकश
देखा जब क़दमों की तरफ अपने
बरसा पानी मगर पलकों तक बस
रह जाती है रड़क कुछ दिल में
बारिश के भी, पंछियों के भी !
एहसास था जिसने करना चाहा
बूंदों का नमी का,
बदकिस्मत पर जिसको
मिला अक्स और परछाई तक नहीं
भर गए अनाज से घर कुछ के,
भर गए अनाज से खेत कहीं
है पर बारिश का क्या कसूर
थी चाही जिसने सबकी ख़ुशी
रह जाती है रड़क कुछ दिल में बारिश के भी, इंसान के भी !
About Rohit: I belong to Chandigarh. I believe in the power of the words. And that is why I am pursuing in the field of literature which I consider as the source of my life and living.
Untitled by Byju V
The pen goes dry, the screen goes blank,
the violated canvas craves
for the respite of colours.
Exiled words, banished images,
Expelled ideas, roam in quest,
screaming silently at the mocking grins.
The scary, the ugly, the bloody, the real,
seep in through the skin.
The lump in the throat, the acid in the stomach,
the struggle in the cage, the flutter of the clipped wings,
the clatter of metal, the fire in the call,
the missing glint in the lifeless eyes;
The untidy beard, Tearing fabric,
the phlegmatic cough of submission.
We can savor all that (can’t we?)
Memories of wilderness,
depressed souls breaking the cold.
Aren’t we here, my friends,
On the shores of churning unquiet oceans.
About Byju V: Born in 1971, I am settled in Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala. I am working in Kerala Water Authority. I am a trade union activist and write a lot about the perils of privatization of water and the struggles against it.
There’s a painter in my room by Christy Bharath
the stillness of dusk
outside the window
with her gin-soaked hair.
streaks of half-light
in her pillows.
move on the canvas
set aside for trees
to breathe life
into psychic plants.
bloom in penciled shades
as a song tiptoes
behind her tongue,
drunk on melodies,
About Christy Bharath: I’m a writer. Worked as a journalist for Indian Express for 2 years, in the advertising space for a year, and for corporate companies for over 9 years as a communication manager. Have also written narratives and script edits for independent films and documentaries. Currently freelancing, trekking, and pursuing poetry and photography.
Act of sharing the heart ! by Manika Arora
In an act of sharing my heart, I divided and parcelled out all my emotions and left with none,
Some connected with them, some repelled by them, others appreciated, for few it was fun.
The grief which was mine, the joy that belonged to me,
The love I treasure , the pain I suffered, those butterflies in my belly.
When I opened their braids and unbounded the enigma of their tress,
It penetrated through other hearts only to disappear into nothingness.
It would have survived in my heart had I resisted making the world a call,
Right you were Mallarmé*, the suggestion is creation but my definition killed it all
About Manika: I am a 23 year old Research Scholar at Department of English and Cultural Studies, Panjab University, Chandigarh.
Creative Mind by Vincent Van Ross
Is a wandering albatross!
Into the azure blue sky
Over the seas
And the oceans
Where no other bird flies!
It does not
Search for land
To descend after a long
And tiring flight!
It is happy to spot
A ship in the high seas
Struggling with waves
And conquering high tides
Where it could land
For a few moments
Before taking-off again
On another long flight!
About Vincent Van Ross: Vincent Van Ross is a poet, journalist, writer, editor and photographer. He is based at New Delhi in India. He writes in English as well as Hindi. His writings include news and feature stories; short stories, poems and humour. He writes on a variety of themes such as national and international politics, defence, environment, travel, spirituality etc.
Magic lens by M R Prabhakar
In a far off land on a cobbled way
A weary old man showed me a lens
‘For all the coins in your pocket’, he stretched his hand
But buying the glass I said, made little sense
Magic lens shows the evil he prayed
The liar and the wicked in black he bade
‘This is all I have’, I handed him the coins
With no presage of woe, the decision made
He looked me through the lens and wryly smiled
I smiled too for the bargain wild
Jingle in the hand he melted in the crowd.
I wore the lens framed and did I feel proud!
I saw them from near, I saw them from far
In every shade of the colour of dark
In the land of mine and the land yonder
The truth of their colour made me wonder
On a fateful day, of those summer days
I ambled inside with the lens in place
I saw myself in the dusty old mirror
Twice not once and I shuddered in horror.
I tossed those coins I saved that day
In the far off land on the cobbled way
That the sense of guilt may go away
But the colour in the mirror stayed anyway
Picked the coins and sailed again
To the far off land but in vain
He wasn’t there, just the cobbled way
The colour in the mirror was there to stay
About M R Prabhakar: Engineer by education, but drifted into the world of IT. Software professional, but trying to shed the title and indulge in more creative aspects of life. Want to write. Interested in nature, wildlife, photography. Love to travel – trying to balance between the urge to travel and the compulsions of life.
Wanderlust by Harleen Kaur Khaira
Loud ticking of the hands
strike against the time of clock,
The turning sides of the breaths
fold on the prints of lazy thoughts,
Words clattering on the page
like a mess of a ruined day,
A vexing angst like a bug
sits clenched amongst the teeth,
A dancing trauma on heart’s stage
one by one the feelings play,
A tiring sense cries out inside
to shut all music of the night.
And drag the touch of self,
to the silent pouring of the rain.
About Harleen: I am a student at Panjab University, Chandigarh and have completed masters in English literature. It has not been very long that I started playing with words and the lessons of language grow interesting with each day. Poetry has always been an important tool and companion as far as expressing myself is concerned. I wish to dwell more in the literary world through the medium of various languages. Always looking forward to get in touch with budding writers.
My little sister Viti by Saanvi Mehra
नटखट नटखट छोटी छोटी,
कभी वोह हंसती कभी वोह रोती
इशारों में है बातें करती,
दिन भर खूब मस्ती करती
मुझको सबसे प्यारी लगती,
मेरे पापा जैसी दिखती,
मेरी प्यारी बहना ‘विती’
About Saanvi: My name is Saanvi. I am 8 yrs old and I study in Shriram School Noida. I love reading books and can spend the entire day reading without getting hungry or thirsty 🙂 . I enjoy making cards and writing reviews and poems.
तुम by Jaswinder Singh (Jassi)
जब से तुमको देखा
एक पल भुला न सका
तुम न थी, तुम्हारी याद थी
दिल से जिसे निकल न सका
तुम हो मेरे बचपन का प्यार
कोई ओर दिल को भा न सका
तुम थी मेरा पहला आख़िरी प्यार
पर अफ़सोस तुम्हे पा न सका
भाव जंजर की इस तपन मे
तुम बन आए वनज्योत्सना
शीतलता दिल पेर बिखराकर
कर गयी खुद से अंजाना
हमने दिया अपना दिल तुम्हे
तुम अपना दिल दे न सके
हमने पाया ख़्वाबो मे तुम्हे
जीवन मे तुम्हे पा न सके
तुम मेरा एक ख्वाब थी
जिसका टूटना लाजमी था
ग़ुरबत की दीवार से टकराकर
उसे तो चकनाचूर होना था
जिंदगी के इस सफ़र मे
तुम्हारा साथ पा ना सके
तनहा रहे इस दुनिया मे
खुशियाँ जीवन की पा न सके
चाहा बहुत भूल जाएँ तुम्हे
जितना भूले उतना याद आए
दूर जाना चाहा जितना तुमसे
उतने दिल के करीब आए
About Jassi: I love all creatures and see sunsets,poetry everywhere. I shun ignorance, apathy, hatred and dream of peace everywhere. I write dil se… and live in dil walon ki Delhi.
एक लड़की भोली भाली सी – Deepa Gupta
एक लड़की भोली भाली सी
बातों मे अल्हड़ सीधी सादी सी
एक दिन एक लड़का आया उसके जीवन मे
महक उठा जीवन फूलों की खुशबू सा
वो उतर गया होले से उसके दिल मे
आँखो का काजल बन के
उदास आँखे चमक उठी जुगनू सी
बन गया वो अधरों की मुस्कान सा
जिंदगी उसकी हो गई ख्वाबों सी
चहक उठी लड़की भोली भली सी.
About Deepa: Born in Ajmer, Deepa is a 45 year old B. Com. Graduuate. She loves poetry and everything else related to writing and reading.