Mogri owns a transit home.

Mogri loved her privacy and her solitude. She chose to live on her own- six months ago - when her son got married.

Whenever she had gone house-hunting, she had enquired about the neighborhood. She did not want nosy neighbors who would open their doors and peep out each time her door bell rang, nor did she want a neighbor with children under five, who asked too many questions or made too much noise. She had seen more than forty apartments before she had zeroed on to an apartment in a building with no lift and no next-door neighbor. The three more apartments on her floor were vacant and belonged to some rich NRI. She chose third floor with no lift to guard herself against any unwanted guest. She was sure that nobody loved her so much so as to climb three floors to visit her.
What she didn’t realize was that she chose a house closer to the airport and she would have guests who would want to use her house as a transit point.

Her first guest arrived two weeks after she moved in. Her cousin from London called her to give her the news of her arrival.

“Hey Mogri, guess what? I am going to Bangalore but will come to Mumbai for two days. You know, you are so lucky that you are staying closer to the airport, will you come to pick me up?”

“Why don’t you take a taxi? I will give you my address.” She said

“Oh! I don’t trust these taxis, and since it is such a short distance, no taxi will be willing to ply, not even the prepaid ones, I am sure of that. Come on, be a darling, you are just 15 minutes away from the airport, please come to pick me up.”

“Do you know that I stay on a third floor and there is no lift in my building? Won’t it be inconvenient for you to climb up?” She said, hoping to discourage her.

“Oh, what does it matter, it’s your companionship that I love, and I would not like to hurt you by checking into a hotel, would I?”

“Bloody stingy!” she said under her breath as she made a note of her flight details.
Mogri hated Mumbai airport which was more like a refugee camp. There was no room to rest one’s feet. Many people who were tired of standing, squatted down on the dirty ground. It was always too crowded. While she waited, leaning against the wall, she saw a family of twelve people, with the garlands in their hands, welcoming a youth with a dangling medal across his chest. They were all crowding around him, blocking her view. As soon as she saw her cousin, she walked up to receive her.

And for next two days, silence exited from her back door.

Her cousin was a radio with no ‘off’ switch. Continuously she ranted about the weather in Mumbai, about the pollution, about the poverty, about the unhygienic food on Mumbai streets. She boasted about her life in London, about her investments, about her jewelry and clothes, about her popularity amongst her friends, and also about the vast contrast between Mumbai and London.

Although Mogri was not too fond of Mumbai but still, she was getting offended at her cousin’s abusive rant.

‘It’s only for two days’ she kept reminding herself, taking deep breaths and counting slowly from one to ten. She fumbled with TV channels but no program was interesting enough to distract her cousin. She tried to hide in her bathroom, but her cousin stood outside her door and raved on. Mogri craved for her routine activities. She missed her yoga sessions. Her magazine rack sulked. His fingers itched to go online and meet her FB friends, to play scrabble with her friends, to plant seeds and decorate her virtual farm. She desperately waited for her cousin to pause so that she could also express her own opinion, but it seemed like her cousin was on powerful vitamins which gave her an extraordinary stamina to talk and talk and talk.

Two days took two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes to arrive and she chopped them up by one hundred and eighty minutes by calling a cool cab, three hours before the departure time.

But that was not the end of it. It was the beginning of a new episode.

Mogri was to get used to the stream of visitors that looked for free accommodations, closer to the airport with a good hostess.

Diwali Festival

Wearing spotless garbs,
he smiles at friends,
hogging sweets,
praying retreats,
bathing in festival of light
all in celebrations,
but blasting crackers?

What does he gain?

Covered with thick smoke,
polluted air
imprisons his mind
in a filtered progression
paralyzing his imagination
killing his capacity to
warble emotions.

Is that not a pain?

Boom! Boom!
he rejoices the loud sounds
that knocks him aggressively,
upsetting the acoustic of his mind
thoughtlessly,
breaking them into fragments
of fractured verses.

he calls that a game?

During Diwali festival
bleats he
gloating to the tunes
of rhythm and fun
but his love is crushed
to a deafening silence
by sparklers with a noisy head.

Has not his happiness failed?

Boom! Boom!
his hard earned cash
of sweat and labor
melts
into a
thin
air.

Oh! What a shame!

Winter blues (55-ers)

I spread one more blanket over three layers of sheets, but I am still trembling. I turn to my side, wrap my arms around my breast, and bury my head underneath the blankets, breathing out the warm air to bring comfort. In the next room, mom is comfortable, so is my dad. They exchange heat.

My Faith

I stand poised
into yogic posture
unmoved by distractions
The reptiles of desires
crawl all over me
seducing me
hoping that I could bend
just one miniscule of nerve
but determined and stubborn
I stand there merged,
stagnant,
into the walls of faith
until I find
my ultimate goal
of salvation

Witches' World

Liquid dreams
Escape
Passing through the crevices
Of deep sleep
Into the make-believe world
Where witches are friends
Sitting on golden throne
Making magic broth
That sits on their palm
Sprinkling the mischievous desires
That led to an impossible world
Nothing is evil no more
Gloom is unknown
Wicked laugh reigns
Sin is intoxicating drink
Cherished and nurtured
Until
The first ray of light seep in
Knocking
To end this bliss

By the sea-shore

The calm spread all over the sky as it saw its reflections on the smooth layer of waters, it waited patiently for the hours to pass, soon, there would be twinkling stars dotting the sea and dark blue sky would merge into night with only the stars guiding the moon.

Copy-Paste

Copy-paste is easy way
To escape from
Tumbling thoughts and
Risk damage to my nerves

Why break my spine
When facts are out there
Carefully logged by some one
with better wit than I

I would rather use my mind
To plan my progress
Towards my next station
Of comfort

If you force me to write
Something
That does not move me
Nor stir any chord within me
I will copy-paste for you
Wrap it with a ribbon
Of great new idea
And present it to you

You must not nitpick
Nor carp my verse
Cause you were too lazy to
Research it yourself

Truth is out there
Millions years old
Reshuffled, churned, dyed,
Squeezed, battered, recycled

I did not want to touch it
Nor feed my own core
You forced me, knowing not
That I had a mind of my own
That celebrated each moment
With a new untouched goal

Just for me, I sing
The original love song of my soul

Greetings to Preeti Bose

For a friend, Preeti Bose, whose every status post on FB is poetic verse. I think she deserves something written especially for her in a poetic language that she understands..

So, when the opportunity arise to wish her on her birthday, my muse swings with joy and sings a special verse on her special day:

"The white face of moon blushes turning deeeep red, reading your lines. as u play with your words unfolding the nakedness of a verse, it turns its head slightly, shyly. wishing you well on your great day......I push the moon aside cause its now my turn to wish u......
Happy Birthday..May your muse shine upon u."

And why not?

She writes so beautifully.... I luv it...Once she wrote:

"I wish to reach out
and touch your smile
for now, will gently caress
my memory of you.
wonder if you are in the know
when we walk together
fondness walks next to us,
in that sinuous aisle
of a make-believe world......."

......and many more of her beautiful poems are there on her blog.

so an ordinary birthday greeting won't do, na?

Volcano

Write I must
But words must flow
Erupting from deep inside
The volcano
Full of heat and fire of my soul

How do I write for you?
I need to be inspired
I need to be moved
or may be tickled up in my raw bone

I honestly cannot write for you
If I don’t really feel that glow

Blog Swapped Into Pockets of Inspiration

If you like this



Or this




then you must visit Pockets of Inspiration a blog which has lots of great ideas to keep your self busy on a rainy day when, (even your computer does not cooperate) and you are able to while away your time producing beautiful, creative stuff from the materials such as paper and odds and ends.

I stumbled upon this blog when I signed for blog swap at netblogging. What was a poet like me doing at art corner? Well, poets get inspired by anything that moves (or doesn’t move).

During the time away from my poetry, when my muse looked for inspiration, Melanie’s blog appeared in blog swap and here I am, hooked for days, learning the tricks into another creative world……at

I love this blog because it is meant to offer inspiration for creating your own works of art with the use of rubberstamps.

And I am loving it….

Do visit Melanie's blog and enjoy the joys of inspirations. I am going back to her blog, come on, come along........

Agony

We constantly tire of tedious peace
And look with yearning
For the challenge of agony
And when it arrives
Its painful now
Its bitter arrows sting
Till it bleeds
No balm eases the mental wounds
When deeper the poison seeps within
Killing the soul that could fly
Over the oceans of happiness
Its wings are clipped
It lies wounded
Forever obstructing
The tranquil and peace.

Painful

Nothing lasts forever
Nor fame, nor name
Nor friend, nor foe
Everything comes around
To haunts us even more
Foolishly
We get entangled
Knowing its results
What brought us laughter
Someday
Is the cause of our pain
Today
Hindering our thoughts
Hijacking our emotions
Smile is just another curve
To hide the actual shade
We feel hollow within
Something chewing up our brain
Helplessly, we move on
Yet again
To another station
Where they sell
New supply of pain

Sometimes

Sometimes

Poetry can paint true feelings
Even when laced with random thoughts
Colors, designs, shapes inter-locked
Captured inside an intricate prints

The eye within sees the colorful shades
With different hues at titled angles
Thoughts mingle with greater ease when
Words emerge refreshed from painted canvas

They jump off easel with renewed verses
Unlocking rhythm of compressed thoughts
Colors, design, shapes, unzipped
Poetry jumps to express the feelings

Godawful poems # 15

RIP to 15 Bad Poems

A poem without a thought
A thought that leads to a poem
No edits no cuts
Emotions may sometime rust
But messages were clear
In godawful fortnight they were normally sneered
In rhymes with chimes
The verses brought tears
To those who cared
And nursed their muse
Now I too rest, this nonsense must end
Shall be back to normal poems
RIP bad poem, will pamper you again
Maybe
Next year.

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 14

My Online Friends

I wandered lonely as a cloud
Over the virtual webs and popular links
When all at once I saw a crowd
On FaceBook they were having chills
Beneath the super pokes, beneath the quiz
Flittering through my inbox streams

Continuous they would kill the time
And chatted on that gossip line
They stretched their words on my personal wall
Along with thoughts and quotes of day
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Pollute my news feed with words that dance

I looked for a friend who meant much to me
But his news feed was most unwelcomed to me
Until I went visiting his personal page
And saw the activities of his day
I read and read his every space
Then surprised I was that he has a new mate

The game of scrabble is on hold
Words twirl and Mafia wars he plays no more
The games he plays now, obnoxious to me
I am sad, conflicted, unpleasantness surround me
It lasts for a moment, just a while, when
A group of better friends come on line.

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 13

Jai Ganesha

This Ganpati festival, I visit my friend where Ganpati is the Guest, I want to talk to the idol but my voice is drowned under the loud sound of music, and I cannot hear myself speak so I decide just to eat the Prasad that is delicious and which Idol may not eat.

I tell my friend that Ganpati is too uncomfortable, lower the volume, so that He can hear my prayers, but she argues that to get into the groove and get positive vibrations the loud decibels need to seep through her skin pores to enter her stream.

I tell my friend to sing soft hymns in praise of Lord, the sweet melody of vocal chords have much devotion and is soothing to the nerves but she prefers to play the recorded tunes so un-clearly sung with Bollywood themes

I tell my friend that if Ganpati go deaf, he may not hear her plea, her unfulfilled desires and her grief but selfish that she is, she plans to scream into His ears her fantasies and her impossible dreams.

On the beach she stands with Ganpati in her hand, before her final goodbyes, she is shouting “Ganpati Bapa Moriya, come again the next year”, again another scream!

I nibble my nails, I am too much under strain and I wonder whether Ganpati will forget the cruelty in one year and come back again? Maybe He will not, not even in her dreams!

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 12

Sinner

I hate to sin but love the sinner
In every act I am still all time winner

Under the table, I offer him cake
Icing done above, though it is all faked

Ministers, constables, or any corporate sister
All are in a team to extract something sinister

Nothing can be accomplished on a straight path
Zigzag I go, curving on their wavy heart

Forms and reforms have invisible dotted lines
I give them some bribe, they appear in no time

Long queues are cut for influential caught in rut
Over a glass of beer, all the obstacles are shut

Foolish I would be if I was not ready to sin
Why waste time at judicial courts,
When it is so easy to win?

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 11

Reply to Raamesh…

Oh well! Oh well!

You think of suicide by drowning in the well? But when you think of her, you say, “Save me, save me!”

You opt for a dope, though you wanted to take a rope but when you hear her sweet voice, you say, “Save me, save me!”

Poison might work for you cause your neighbors are not so rude, they love her melodious voice, and don’t hear you say, “Save me, save me!”

Guns are shunned when she walks over the barren land, the birds begin to sing and smile but still you cry, “Save me, save me!”

Ink is surely a relief but venom is never cheap. Somebody tell this Ozy to stop saying “Save me, save me!”

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 10

King Khan

Humpty Dumpty
And the King Khan
Were stopped at the immigration
Though it was not their fault
Both were famous
Both were smart
Still, media jokers promoted them to a
Publicity mall

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 9

Writer Wins

BJP party is full of ‘characters’
All pretending to hate Jinnah book
Forcing the writer to resign
For a crime of his personal expression

Members yawn as they see
The books disappear from the shelves
One by one,

Curiosity rules,
History emerges from the graves
Jaswant’s daily stingers rock

Expulsion from a party
Was not a dirty game
After all

Godawful Poetry Fortnight