Jo haath saalon se khilaye the, Aaj wahi upar utte hain, pratishedh mein, Dilli ke bahar arajakta nahi, Vishwasghat kiya hai, Asamadhan ki srishti nahi, Kisanon ki bali chad rahi hai, Aaj keh do haan, Inn hazaron haathon ki dua mil jayegi, Dukhte pet ko sukoon mil jayegi, Ek sau tees karod ki janta ko rahat mil jayegi, Varna rehne do, karodon ke bhukhmare ke tadad mein, Milalo inke aashaon ko bhi, Na kal kisan ki mauth dekhi, Na aaj unka virodh, Aankh bandh rakhne mein na jaane kaunsa sukh milta hai, Na kisan ki mauth hazam hoti hai, Na unka rona hamein hazam hota hai, Akele bolne wale hain, par nidar kayam hai, Mazboot unke awaaz hai, dil hindustani hai, Banata kisan hai, Par khate to sab insaan hai, Fir kyon hai jijak, Kis baat ka hai sankoch, Inke aasuon ke baadal ko pure bharat mein barsao, Banao hamari pehchaan ek, tabhi tho desh ek banega, Tab tak lage raho, bhaiya, Waise bhi sarkar hans hi rahi hai.....
I have seen them so alive, Almost talking to me, Playful teasing with the wind, They nudge the little human, Inside me like a favourite sister, I'd look at them mesmerized, Though I've always loved their heights, It's they who have come down to me, I thought they'd play out a little fairytale, In the summers when it rained, But more than fairies, they are angels, Apart from magic, they possess kindness, They taught me humanity more than any human did, To give and serve to the last breath, Like the green stood for strength of character, Don't they rise high to the sky for the Sun's love, And stand tall like mute spectators in the night, Pretending to be stagehands for moon's soiree, They are rooted but they rise up all their life, As they rise they get more down to earth, Simplicity that supplements survival, It's a sweet ambition, They look like dejected sketches seeking solace, In moonlit nights, They are singing troupers in the mountain's high winds, Admiring the earth like they are the rain's children.
Questionku is a type of short form poem (similar to Haiku) that creates a question. The style of writing was created by poet Richard Lamoureux.
The poem is written on only three lines. First line: 4 syllables Second line: 5 syllables Third line: 6 syllables
The purpose of most questionku poems is to raise a question about life or humanity that the reader will think about. Usually, the first two lines set up the background and the third line pops the question.
Romanticized depression is the most malign of them all. Like a handicap, adorned with faux fur to make it appealing. It is still, unmistakably, a handicap. Binding you to your chair. hands and feet locked on and still. the weight of your dreams crushing your insides. mind walls close in heart thunders in your ears and eyes try hard not to let go. How does one let go how does one not hold onto the past and sleep without it every night hugging it close, like an old friend like a true friend how does one see beyond the veil of regrets mistakes and repercussions a filter all made up in your very own heads drowning in trivial objects of desire love and lust to forget keepsakes of forged ambition and forgotten goals. bitter-sweet memories haunting in the middle of the night as you sit up in bed fire up a 45 minute cardio session and still feel this restlessness in your heart amidst the throb and the sweat. how do you live with the nagging feeling that you are not doing well for yourself. how do you live with the silent screams in your head!
'The rain to the wind said, 'You push and I'll pelt.' They so smote the garden bed That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged--though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.' - Robert Frost
WOOL-GATHERING means dreamy imagining or absent-mindedness. (This interesting word literally referred to the act of gathering loose tufts of wool that had been caught on bushes and fences as sheep passed by).
✓Use this word in a sentence. ✓Post in the comments section.
You have absolutely no reason to read this, but I have one to write. Stick along, I won't leave you empty handed.
It's a special day. Look out your window, is the sun still throwing shades of crimson across the sky? Are the trees still dancing to the symphony of wind? Look in your room again. Can you count the colours in your bedroom? C'mon, try it, it'll be fun.
You must be mistaking me for a philocalist since birth, but this side of me was born just yesterday. I was an introvert, as some people said. My nose was always inhaling the scent of novels and my ears filled with numerous rhythms. My room was my home, I wasn't a fan of colours. Like some people call it, darkness welcomed me like no one did, it felt like my abode. I breathed solace in the blackness I stepped into whenever I closed my eyes.
Whenever reality sung me a ballad, I painted my poetries in fantasy. I was amazed how the blues of my life could be perfectly woven within the blackness. I wasn't much social, I had only two friends, and they were already in a relationship, my pen and paper. I always kept to myself, the different parts of me in different books and a piece of me in every note that beat my eardrums.
Some people dance in the rain, others await the rainbow, I was fascinated by the brumous sky and the flashes of lightning, it felt familiar. While people were dreaming of flying, I was leaving behind my broken pieces in my shadow. It was different back then. Yesterday changed everything.
I woke up this morning and ran to my window, my sight was lingering over the clouds looking for the sun when it rose, painting crimson shades in my hazel black eyes. It's amazing how a ray of light can drive away all the darkness. As the rays of sun tiptoed on my flesh, I realised how some footprints may fade away, but their warmth always remains in your soul. I saw some birds soaring high in the sky and others building nests, collecting tiny twigs from far away places and building their own home. I guess it's the same for us.
I couldn't wait to get out and walk along the forlorn paths breathing in the scent of every blooming flower, collecting shades of iridescent wings of butterflies, picking up fallen fruits, and listening to the cracking sound of leaves under my feet. It all felt like magic. I went to a seaside park and watched the waves submerge in the ocean every other second, losing their existence to be a part of something big, I am not going to end up a wave. The leaves stuck to the branches trying to fly away, the fruits hanging trying to fall down, and how they forgot who gave them birth. The sun was going down, it was hard letting go, until I saw the stars twinkling in the sky and the moon making up for the sunset. Funny how endings can give birth to such beautiful beginnings. I walked back to my house and rushed to the terrace, gulping in the beauty of every star, and here I am pouring it on pages.
It looks like I lost the track, apologies. So, this philocalist, this me, was awakened when a breaking news broke my heart. I have been diagnosed with a disease as per which I will lose my sight in about a week. It was pretty much to take in. Books didn't help, music was no peace, but those stars made me feel like I wasn't alone, and the moon, it didn't leave my side all night. Funny how the darkness which seemed home until yesterday will feel like nothing more than a prison. Maybe home isn't what they say, it's in every gush of wind that blows, every leaf that falls, every flower that blooms, every star that twinkles, and in every part of me.
My vision is more blurry with every passing moment and people talk about forevers, I wish I had one too, because every moment counts now. In the few days I have left with colours, I want to collect all my twigs and build me a nest strong enough to hold me as long as I shall breathe. My favourite colour isn't black anymore, it's nature, it's life. Whatever colour it puts me in, shall be my favourite.
I know you must be thinking how much darkness fascinated you before you started reading this and how you can see colours reflected even in the black ink scribbled over this page.
I have a few days, but you've still got many, try to make your nest more colourful than the rainbow.