Wednesday, April 15, 2020

Day 14: A dedication to my inspiration

Day 14 challenge to write about poet(s) who have inspired me, is both highly interesting and complicated. The writing-bug was injected in me by my hugely inspiring "Roli Didi" - and the major names, who have inspired me to write are many.

Hence, to do justice, I am writing the poem in two completely different styles. The first part is in the same simple childish style, with which I had started writing ages ago, and the second part is in the style of each of my favorite poets. As most of my earlier influences were in Hindi, today's challenge poem is also in my mother tongue.

Additionally, I have tried to divide each stanza in the second part in each of my favorite रस - i.e. शांत रस, श्रृंगार रस, हास्य, वीर and finally भक्ति रस।



उन दिनों, जब A. C. , जेनेरेटर न था

"बिजली चली गई", कमरे से निकलने का बहाना था

गर्मी की छुट्टियां, orange वाली आइसक्रीम की चुस्कियां

और बस नानी के घर जाना था ...


ऐसी ही किसी "जेठ की दुपहरी"

बैठे उस गलियारे में,

खेलते थे हम कविताओं की अंत्याक्षरी

लिखते लाइनें, इधर उधर के बारे में


वो लाइनें अब भी लिख रहा हूँ

कुछ संजीदा, कुछ व्यंग भरी

आप जैसा शायद कभी लिख पाऊं

है ये उम्मीद, अभी भी कहीं

--------------------------------------------------------------

मैं 'दिनकर', 'गुप्त', 'भारती' नहीं

जो गीत लिखूँ  कालांतर के

बस शब्दों में भाव बहे

उद्गम हृदय के अंतर से।


वर्णों की पुष्पमाल से,

हो श्रृंगार उस छवि का

सूर, तुलसी , रसख़ान  ने जिसे

अतुल्य सजाया था रवि सा ।


शैल, काका, और चक्रधर की

वाणी से ज्यूँ हास्य मिला,

यूँ मेरी पंक्तियों में भी

मधुर अधर से काव्य खिला।


जिन शब्दों की वीरता का

सुभद्रा जैसा न हो सानी

उन बुंदेले हरबोलों के मुंह से

मैं भी सुनूं कोई कहानी



हे श्वेतवर्णी , कलाधारा,

हो कविता की देवी तुम

मेरे शब्दों को शक्ति दे

माँ , इतनी विनती सुन।








Tuesday, April 14, 2020

Day 13: A non-apology for stealing



I wouldn't have done it otherwise
It was just too tempting
Who would've let such a precious thing go
But I do apologize for attempting

I am sorry if you felt bad
why did you keep it in open
Those three rings on its top
Oh! it looked so golden.

It was perfect, just like I wanted
casting its magic, far and broad
not too shiny, just so subtle
Even old jewelers couldn't forge

The first time, I had only touched it
It had filled me with utmost affection
A shiver had run down my spine
I had felt that special connection.

I didn't think you would notice
After all, you had plenty
But I'm now admitting
as I'm awfully guilty.

Dear neighbor,
I do love thee
But "Thou shall not steal"
is probably not for me

I do feel extremely sorry
for this request so absurd
but could you please, once more
remove your Wifi Password.




Sunday, April 12, 2020

Day 12: Triolet


"What the hell is a Triolet ?",
A poet was once asked in a quiz.

He said, "It's the place you go after death."

"What! The Hell is a Triolet ??"

"Well, No easier answers, yet
So, now you know, this is
What the hell is a Triolet."

A poet was once asked in a quiz.

Day 11: A flower's story

Carnation flowers


Sitting in the park
On that winter's evening
sounds of kids were mixed with the birds';
A book of my favorite stories,
dozing off on the grass near me.
My eyes were fixed on that snoring page
when your fingers had first touched mine.

I remember, that day, you'd given me a blue carnation.



You visited me in the hostel room
The warden frowned but let you in
You didn't care for my friends' pretence
my room mate had also found an excuse
Tinkle in your smile was all I heard
were there also giggles outside?

I later found a mauve carnation on the bed.
It smelled the same as
the scent on the bottom of your neck






You held my hand through that lecture
The professor decided to not notice
Sitting in the back row, you wrote me a note
to meet you in our special corner
we went separately to those stairs
where we talked about so many things

You told me about the crimson flower.







Those classes bunked, lies to parents
secret routes for afternoon with you
Giving naughty names to hidden moles
no profanity of name or promise
life felt pure, as it should be.

Time blossomed with pink carnations






Leaving your city, it was my final day
You woke me up before the cuckoo's call
We didn't waste a second that day
but the dreaded night did fall.

Standing near your door, to see you off
Couldn't muster courage to say good bye
Just touched your face, and turned away
The world was hazy, to my eye
.
.
.

Between yellowed pages, I found a carnation today
Gone years have taken away its colors
But those must be signs of drew drops
'coz you once told me, "Flowers don't cry"


© Ankush Agarwal
12-Apr-2020

Day 10: Hay(na)ku



Education !
despise darkness?
light a candle.

Gym !
pull weights?
Books are better.

Love !
fairy tales
Not for me.

God !
is Dead.
Or is She?

Heaven !
The moment
I met you

Assumptions !
you do,
like me too.

Luck !
Bad luck,
All I have.

We're !
Drifting apart...
slowly and slowly.

Life !
Without you...
Never the same.




Saturday, April 11, 2020

Day 9: Concrete Poetry


A Gem

I
I  am !
Who am I ?
Am I just body ?
or senses assembled ,
like. feelings within leather.
Or  I am someone else altogether.
I might have flaws, or I'm just perfection
But when I look at you, I see own reflection..
¿uoᴉʇɔǝlɟǝɹ ʎɯ ǝǝs I op ʎɥʍ 'noʎ ʇɐ ʞool I uǝɥM
uoᴉxǝldɯoɔ ɹou 'sʞool ʎɯ ǝʌɐɥ ʇ,uop no⅄
ɹǝʌǝɹoɟ ǝʞᴉl slǝǝɟ ʇnq ʍouʞ ʇ,uop I
ɹǝɥʇǝƃoʇ ǝɹǝɥ ǝɹɐ ǝʍ ʍoɥǝɯos
pǝlqɯǝsǝɹ   ,sʎɐʍlɐ I
ǝǝɥʇ  pǝʇɔǝlɟǝɹ ⅋
ɯɐ  - I zoɔ,
ǝʞᴉlɯǝפ


Friday, April 10, 2020

Day 8: Line from another poem

Stopping by woods...

The woods were lovely, dark and deep
like series of dreams in a deep sleep


Memories have grown on these woods
His only friends since childhood

Birds played peek-a-boo, when he'd cry
his mother working somewhere nearby

There're marks still, where he roped his swings
flying high in sky on feathers of strings

He often hid behind that reticent oak
for a secret kiss or a rebellious smoke

Those trees whispered only to him
Whenever he listened happily or grim

But after ages now, he's here alone
doesn't believe in whispers, he's a man grown

Doesn't swing on trees, 'coz he's a man grown
Metal clinks sound sweeter, than a beetle's drone

Doesn't remember his friends, he once so admired
Leaves still rustle for him, but its paper he desired

The woods were lovely, dark and deep
but he's got his own, promises to keep

He was sure, the trees will understand
they'll pretend not noticing, the axe in his hand.

© Ankush Agarwal
10-Apr-2020