Poetry

‘From India with love’ and other poems by Mahathi

By: Mahathi

FROM INDIA WITH LOVE
I come from here, this nation, this terrain,
this clay, and this hot lush with darker skin
and sweat fragrance…yes, India, my reign,
the land of Gods, afreets and weird goblins.

Here yonder sprinkles love, the earth breaths truth,
the rivers hum the songs of cosmic peace,
the winds moist with Vedic hymns, preach ruth.
and sprout piety and tolerance in leas.

We bear on bosoms, chronicles of woes…
and wear our minds tattoos of bygone blues.
Weathering old wounds, we invite more of blows,
recalling cherished Gandhian values.

All said and done, we spare no bandicoots
looting our silos, when we use our boots.

###

SOME FRIENDS
(Shakespearean sonnet)

Some friends are like that…you can’t well define…
like mystic amulets, like tonics sweet.
They often make you think: “Can I be fine
sans them and walk my life steady on feet?”
Their smiles are magical, their talk arcane
and laughs like waters roll’ing on white pebbles!
They’re hypnotic like punching strong cocaine,
and too edifying like soft temple bells.
No distance feels as distance when seance
is possible betraying time and miles.
When world is viewed through sizzling love-lense
how mirthful seems this life with funny guiles.
But he’s just one amongst the million.
To win him, be like him a special one.

###

LET THE NIGHT SLEEP
Enough of your slumber and snore
my friend, you did for years.
Ye keen behold around
…her drooping black eyes
and flowing unwound tresses by silent winds.
Why don’t you keep awake this time O’ mate
and tender shove her inky limbs
into your loving huddle nest.
Yes…today belongs to her…
The Night that never slept…
and come on, sing a lullaby sweet and mellow,
swing her on your bosom bassinet…
and grant…
to this lovely night
that scarce and serene repose and rest.

###

I LIVE AGAIN
At sixty plus, I start living again.
I fall in love, explore new love, attune
once more my rusted old romantic vein
and pull out of the clouds, the silken moon.

Mistake me not, there’s no running behind
the belles in vain, no building dunes of dough
for future diems…no blind wagers, no hind
vision…it’s just a search for nascent cue.

It’s fresh and newest new, like climbing steep
the aesthetic hammock, like swimming free
in phantom cerulean and peeping deep
into the soul-niches, for big and wee.

I live again before the final swoon
relishing every trice as bonus boon.

Categories: Poetry

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