My Rhyme Crime

This is an article I had written for a friend, philosopher and guide, Amit Misra (sir), on his request, by which I must admit, I was quite humbled.

Check out his blog – a treasure-chest of well-written posts – Pradyot, here.

https://www.pradyot.net

The article is a confession of a crime! That’s all.

Pradyot

Guest article by Geet George

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To start this confession, I spent hours trying to come up with a good statement which would be able to help me describe poetry in its complete essence. Unfortunately, words were not of much help to me here. Only the experience of reading a well written poetry and the emotions it stirs up in you can convey what I wish to say.

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Sky, Goodbye…

The way we are selfishly depleting resources in the name of development, with complete indifference to mankind’s future – this poem on an apocalyptic situation, requires very little help of the imagination. 

Every rain cloud is another belief
To be downtrodden by nightfall,
Not a morsel goes in without reminding
The misery that this may be the last of all

Every grim face at my dinner table
Takes the same question to bed,
“The way that it is being forecast,
What if, come ‘morrow, I’m not fed?”

The fields look modest and moan
For what seems like elixir now,
But was truly life’s safest cradle,
That suddenly we decided to do without.

The skies seldom seem to say sorry;
They enjoy this backfired vendetta’s glow
Amidst the darkness that’s now mankind,
Their ex bosom-traveller and now prime foe.

Yours Is What Was Mine

Most of us write poems to vent our feelings in some manner, but they sometimes don’t give us the needed refuge from despair. These pieces of ourselves, however, often take the role of a shoulder on which others weep out their burden. 

The artist wields her pen, no doubt,
In a bid to make herself better –
But literary sculptures seek out
Similar suffering souls to shelter.

These clouds that seem to drift away
In truth, only leave her high and dry.
Embodied feelings thus go astray;
They rain down elsewhere, where others cry.

 

Lost, is Love on Them

Crying out to my “loved ones”,
To hear out my desperate plea once –
A prayer to let us live with love,
But all I see is that, from here above,
They can’t hear what love is.

How much longer should I expect
To wait for days you won’t reject
My idea of spending life’s moments
Amidst gifted family and friends fervent?
Can’t you see what love is?

A slight mention of the possibility
Of committing my cultivated fidelity,
To a soul they haven’t themselves sculpted,
Tells me that despite all the education fed,
They don’t care what love is.

Standing at the gates of acceptance,
Dreaming of a united existence.
It’s been ages waiting for change.
Let’s start walking back, love,
They just don’t love what love is.