Richard Jarboe
Fire is fire
burn out fast
like fading embers
when love won’t last.
But fire burns on
and love remains
on and on
essential flames.
Fire is fire
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Beauty’s Rose
Richard Jarboe
Beauty’s Rose
Will never die
Fresh as spring
as the eye.
Beauty’s Rose
Never fades
In memory
of brighten days.
Raise your glass
to times gone past
Raise your glass
to loveliness.
Beauty’s Rose
Blooms in winter,
Beauty’s Rose
Bloom in memory.
Raise your glass
to times gone past
Raise your glass
to loveliness.
Guddi
Chirag Jain
Translated from Hindi by Amrita Bera
Guddi’s father
during the office lunch hours
closes his eyes while
opening his tiffin box,
because he cannot look
at the chapattis,
bearing the brunt of
the holed tawa.
An honest clerk
cannot understand
the game of destiny,
that’s why he gulps down
the holed, burnt chapattis.
Guddi, most of the days
reaches late to the school
and she doesn’t make any
mistake in that.
Because the rules of the school are:-
For the late comer students
two lashes of staff were enough,
and for dirty uniform
even four lashes were less.
Utilizing her intelligence
Guddi saves herself from
the bonus lashes,
because the uniform supervisor
of the school, doesn’t check the
dresses of the students,
who came late.
Guddi’s mother
more than often
remains irritated.
The whole day she keeps grumbling.
For small-small things,
her heart keeps languishing.
When she feels herself helpless,
She keeps cursing Guddi & her father.
“Oh! God, never ever give
such a child to anyone.
Girl! Can’t you give me some poison?
Atleast I’ll be saved of screaming
the whole day.
Atleast I’ll be saved from fretting
for this family.
What a hell is this living?
Just giving rupees two thousand
for running the house,
He thinks he has done some
great thing.
He changes a pair of clothes
twice in a week.
As if his father and ancestors
are running factories.
So is the off spring
As if under the spell of a witch,
while cleaning the utensils,
scrubs the tawa hard with
the piece of brick.
All this rubbing has made holes
in the tawa.
She doesn’t realize
a tawa is a tawa,
but it’s our destiny
Which is bleak as the black colour.”
When I watch this standing far
I find poverty – the demon Sursa
Who has swallowed the motherly
feelings of a mother.
The nails of adversities have nailed,
the childhood of an innocent child, forever.
Guddi fearing her mother
Covers the torn chunni (scarf)
Into it’s folds.
Mother hides the poverty of the house
Into the barely covering saree of hers.
Guddi’s father seeing all this
breaks down into pitiable sobs.
An honest clerk, in an offense of honesty
Can do nothing else than
Shedding tears.
SOLILOQUY
Aechna Kaul
I
In that quiet and still moment loneliness hit her,
Like an empty vessel, like a roaring shore less ocean.
Once she opened her mouth to speak
The sluice gates of emotion let loose the words.
Words, which tumbled and gushed out to fill the surrounding void,
Words, which emerged from the shadows of her fears and frustrations,
Words that opened the doors of her rage and revenge,
She tirelessly argued with her fate, past and present.
II
With herself she carried out her most meaningful conversations,
Even as she went about her routine chores-
Cleaning and cooking, washing and watering,
Sweeping, swooping and shopping on her spindly legs.
Her monologue continued unabated to her one constant companion.
Often her monologues were addressed to those
Close to her in different stages of her life…
Her God, mom, sister, friend, husband and children.
III
To the world this mindless muttering matron,
Seemed to be on the brink of insanity.
For her, it was her sustenance through the ranting rains,
The sleepy summer, and the withering winter.
It soothed her frayed nerves and her heavy heart.
It was her addiction, though therapeutic.
It was her last refuge in the autumn of her life,
It made her feel the ebb and flow of life still running through her.
Backyard poetry club
Archna Kaul
A motley group had made an affiliation of sorts
It sprouted and mushroomed in our back lane
And there was born a poetry club with no name
Passion it was for the verses written in Urdu
That linked them beyond their social precincts.
Jagtar the sardar tailor, loved Ahmad Faraz
Akbar Khan, the mason, wrote poetry, and
Admired Ghalib, for his exceptional style
Dashmesh, the ladies lingerie shopkeeper,
Chose Sheikh Saadi as his favourite poet
And there was Nancy, the fourth angle of
This tangle, the aristocrat, with no fiefdom,
With loads of “unfinished tasks” which she
Often tried to skip, to make room for Ghalib
And Faiz, whom she read in another script.
Though not her mother tongue, Urdu made
Her experience her existence more intensely.
It must have all started, when in a moment
Of emotional piquancy, and weariness with
The world, one of them must have uttered a
Ghazal or a rubaiyat and the other might have
Responded with yet another couplet in urdu.
The club continues to exist, even though they
Have parted ways, in more ways than one:
The old mason died leaving behind his handiwork.
Nancy shifted lock, stock out of the old locality
The aging Jagtar is fascinated as ever in poetry.
When his favourite Faraz died, Nancy gifted
Him with his collected works, bought at the
Condolence meeting held for the late Faraz.
Poetry transcended the fences and defences
Of divine and earthly, of gender and pretender
This connect continues to weave its web today
In my back yard, where Rambir a vegetable vender
Utters his dispossession by reciting dohas of Kabir
Which way did liberty go?
Archana Kaul
The flag unfurled, and from within, fresh rose petals
Jauntily floated down like gently melting snow flakes.
Soon, even the smell of freedom dissipated, and lost its
Way into the winding lanes and by lanes of our lives.
Tell me, which way did heady exhilarating liberty go?
It abounds in newspapers, books, and media-shows, as
Hollow, arrogant words, more serendipitous than before,
Unable to connect its intent, through deceptive barricades.
Did we strive to be a free country, only in a small measure?
And celebrate it annually, to mock at the façade of liberty?
What liberty can those millions have, who live on fringes of
Our civilization, taking more than half the weight of our sky?
She might not live beyond the womb, thus eliminating them
From the world, and eventually, leaving men with no choices.
She finds her liberty shuttered in the eyes of the power pillars.
When she treads an alien path and outside her given paradigm
She even bears the burden of her partner’s promiscuities.
Enlighten me as to where does freedom reside in this age?
Has she taken leave of our lives, or died a natural death?
Or, is she a succour and slave to a life of leisure and ease?
Intolerant of human differences, how can we be free?
As we continue to sow, breed and bequeath hatred?
How can we perceive liberty when neither are our
Minds free to think, nor are our tongues unlocked?
Swirling restlessly, liberty is knocking on entrances,
Her chaste appeal is greeted by a curtain of silence.
“I want to live”, she implores the fragmented minds,
“And to lift my veil, to accommodate the spirit of all”.
She is reborn in the radiating beams of each new dawn.
In the eyes of nascent children, she is the wondrous hope.
She renews herself in the breath of daring young dreams.
She resides in the hearts of all those who hunger for it.
She lives in windy passes, between lofty mountains,
Where no one human being steals it from another,
Tied as they are by bonds of humanity, penury, and
Symbiosis, and, not by the need to hegemonize.
She also has a pair of wings on fire for company,
Continuing to flare in the storm of our ignorance
Her spirit dwells in the sweat and courage of those
Who try and make today better than their yesterday.
Each heart could unbolt its doors and sanctify freedom.
We do not need magic to change the world, for we carry
The power inside us, when we imagine a better world,
Of truly free people who bear the load of the less free.
Devaki, Destiny’s Forgotten Daughter
Archna Kaul
Tattered clothes that were barely there
Her tortured soul was threadbare too.
She mirrored our impotent helplessness
In the face of destiny’s dire performance
As we watched her bizarre life played out.
Every time I saw her writhe and squirm,
Flushed ‘n flustered, distressed as well as
Distraught, being hammered into oblivion,
Utter bleakness gawked at us all, mocking
Our inability to assist her back on her feet.
This could have been a splendid heaven
But it was her personal undisclosed hell,
She was screaming out silently for help
Hoping to find a way out of the labyrinthine
Tangle that was choking the life out of her
Callously curbed, and mentally chained,
Wordlessly she suffered her humiliation
Not at the hands of distant villains, but by
Closest of her kin, who married her twice,
And abandoned her on myriad occasions.
Born to suffer like her namesake from past,
The eternally estranged, mother of Krishna.
She shook us out of our false complacence.
And it was probably designed by fate that
She did not recognize it as her true reward,
That the only qualification she had was
The gift of her painfully won knowledge,
That, being weathered by adversity, she
Emerged wiser in her ability to survive,
Despite life being beyond her control.
Of Cobwebs, Cabbages and Cornerstones
Archna Kaul
The flick of a finger over the surface found
A fine layer of dust on sanitized finger tips.
One critical look at the ceiling corners and he
Encountered luscious cobwebs swaying lazily.
Mockingly she would retort that they were
All his, for having discovered them first!!
But she had to clear them at the earliest. The
Cleaning crackdown was mutating her into
A cabbage, which still could comprehend
And reason, dream and articulate a vision,
Living in the anticipation that her ideas
One day would be rendered into actuality.
Cabbages are hardly ever heard or heeded
And rarely do they have any preferences.
Silently she refracted her thoughts inwards
Reflecting those she was socialized into.
She seemed to echo voices not her own, ‘n
Hardly any day, was she a priority in her life,
Paying a price for playing her part, trained,
Like the rest of them, to sign away her life.
Promises, implicit and explicit, made at the
Altar, were not even partially redeemed.
Half way on the road to slavery and solitude,
Almost near stagnation and shadow dreams.
She was the mere subtitle in the film of his life,
The footnotes to the main text of his being,
The appendix attached to the main document,
Always there, like tera firma under the feet.
Imagination is a uniquely human capacity,
To envision that which is not and hence the
Fount of innovation, for all, including her.
Defying the norm, she dared to dream a home
Beyond ownership and address, it was her den and,
Launching pad, her strength ’n anchor of warm and
Safe relationships, none of which would rest on her
Subservience, being an equal member of that unit.
She may be the corner stone, which could stoutly bear
The burden of the home on its shoulders, but only when
The other stones gave it a gripping support that a sturdy
Bonding is born, transforming the house into a home.
A fine film of grime would soon reappear, despite the
Daily act of combing it clean, and so, gladly she chose to
Compromise with some cobwebs for fear of turning into
A cabbage, wasted, worn out, wilting, and at wits’ end!!
Silent Speech
Jai Chhangccha
My ears are magnetic
my eyes are piercing
my heart is a bed of roses
therefore, believe me, my dear
I hear, along with your being
your silent speech.
Alas, I am not a skillful psychologist
nor a pundit who knows
nor a soothsayer
yet believe me my dear!
I listen, along with your heart
your silent speech.
Innocent are your eyes
and your face unpretentious
transparent is your heart
therefore, believe me dear
I comprehend, along with your love
your silent speech.
The happiness brimming on your bright face
the sweet words uttered
by the frequently moving eye-brows
and by your lips
that are trembling with joy
everything I comprehend
therefore, trust me, dear
I understand, along with your self
your silent speech.
The surface of mirror
Jai Chhangccha
I feel like writing
the priceless formulas of love
on the spotless face of yours
like the smooth surface of mirror.
I feel like gazing
sparing not a single moment
on the garden of the lovely face of yours
so rosy, beautiful and attractive.
To tell you the truth
oh my dear!
I feel like putting your face
inside the frame of my heart
for ever
by purchasing it
under a legal deed.
