An impromptu meet of 11 poets, on the World Poetry Day, this evening, from five countries, India, Bangladesh, Oman, the UK and the US, is presented here as international eAnthology of love and other poems. A Special Feature, exclusively for Different Truths.
#1. I’m Not a Poet!
Mahua Sen, India
I am not a poet.
I do not know the art of poetry.
I get stuck in the pretzeled tangle
of simile and metaphors.
I plummet from the slippery slope
of hyperbole and personification.
I bind the words into a posy
with rainbow ribbon, but they escape my grip,
and evaporate into nothingness!
What remains,
is just the fleck of the ribbon.
My diction is mundane, nude!
My musings often do not speak to the reader.
My imagery random!
My enjambment, a gasping koan!
Bumpy rhymes are woven with random images;
I try to sweep the dusty fragments of the hours,
with Rangoli of words that are not permanent.
but pencilled,
that gets expunged in no time!
When I scribble,
dishevelled fringes fall
on my exploding thoughts,
I pick up the strands one by one,
to clear the face of my mind’s canvas.
Oft, there’s a silence in the syllables -
I break them,
to make it whole ...
for you, to decipher.
Sometimes, words ooze out from my womb,
detaching from the umbilical -
gathering scattered syllables
and weaving something to make some sense!
Thoughts, emotions, pain, and ecstasy
nudges the hypersphere of my psyche.
Beguiling me to pen a cypher
of vapid thoughts
on a wrinkled paper,
in the middle of the night -
stubbing it with an obtuse pencil.
Thoughts about thoughts,
an aimless ride on the boulevard of syllables,
I get marooned in words’ tidal force!
But the smoke spirals up
like the funeral pyre’s last song -
creating a quivering half-baked poem.
Then I adorn it like an ornament
in my meandering arteries.
I gift it to myself.
I keep it for a keepsake,
for I indulge in it in my solitude.
Eventually, the scribbles meet their doomsday:
Lost,
forgotten,
buried,
garrotted!
Nay! I am not a poet!
But I might snuff the candle
and let the moonlight flood my pages,
liberating the insomniac thoughts
to bask in the la-la-land.
When the Halley’s Comet sweeps
across the pallid skies,
and my bones grub
in the sepulchres of time,
I might birth
A Poem!
But isn’t it cold outside the womb? 
#2. About a Death
Shree Ganguly, The UK
A death has come between us. Death like raindrops. Raindrops tiptoe inside my heart like distant whispers... Something that you once said I can begin to hear again, Something that once lived inside a poem, Something that I once scribbled On a crumpled piece of paper, Stained with tears. Ink oozing, Words trembling. Soft blue fingertips, dancing on your skin, Leaving marks. The silver moon of my bare nails: chewed open. My lips on your sandpaper face. Savaged raw. Moment. gone. Half-eaten apple, all pieces, all scattered, Just… The core. Seeds scattered. Something's missing. Something broken. Bones know the taste of blood. My blue fingertips remind me of your face, Rigid contours, tender parts, The tender parts of our love Like a small animal laid open. Pink belly up. Ready to be cooked by the world. Devoured. A death has come between us. A death of sanity. Will you be able to love me forever, A slow cooked kind of love, fermented? I’d rather you burn like a moth A death has come between us. Death like raindrops, The curse of your whispers, sweet nothings. Rain-drenched whispers.
#3. Love… a Timeless Truth
Monika Ajay Kaul, India
And eventually… We learn, love was never a trade. We don't give a certain amount for receiving it back. We simply give. Love never steers us to mope. When a loved one leaves us, it shows us the way to revere the lost love and cherish the remembrances. We find our own unsung melodies in those perfect love songs. In our hearts we know….It is love. Love, which is our inner strength. Everything else is just a trivial frenzy. If we ever think that love is just an ephemeral feeling… then we need an introspection, because Love itself is an endurance. A Timeless Truth.
#4. Colosseum, a Storyteller
Anumita Roy, The USA
Standing on the broken stones I touched my fingertips The stone throbbed and a shudder pulsated through my veins, Love, lust, hunger and revenge Stories of long ago I closed my eyes and let them speak Past, yet not forgotten images took from, behind my eyelids. A princess she was and a slave was he Through his hood eyes, he watched mesmerized Her slender limbs slid out from her long robe The alabaster skin of hers, he kissed in his dreams Every evening she sat on the lower stairs to play with her hair At night he placed his head on the step He was a part of her One day she chose him She chose him to be fed to the lions She watched with delight as he was devoured His love exploded red In death, he was chosen as hers. The gladiator, he was strong and brave She was the water girl in the enclave Every time she poured water for the thirsty men A part of her being was clawed away Grubby, sweaty and savage men Grabbing and tearing at her being Each time she poured water for the gladiator His eyes spoke Go away angel, away from this hell Her lips tight and eyes down She never spoke One day mortally struck the gladiator lay The water girl got to her knees weeping for him No one cries for him, though he Her tears cleansed his wounds Love glowed in the dungeon In place of death. He was the jester and she the old king’s wife She was nubile in her late teens Sad and forlorn was her smile His day begins with making people laugh Yet every night he slept with a heavy heart Her lips always deserted the curve He never could light up her eyes One day he met her in the park He slipped and fell with a start A pearl of laughter escaped her lips The world turned into a beauty scene His heart knew no bound of joy She extended her arms to pick him up Her touch reached his soul That night the king’s men came No more Jester was there to remain Love for a moment is all that takes For a soul to be happy again. Waking from the stupor I stood My eyes filled with tears Love a myriad of emotions I touched my chest with my fingertips The stories matched my heartbeat That day on the archway of the Colosseum I stood Many more tales yet to be known From the stones that live to tell stories of Love, lust, hunger and revenge Stories of long ago.
#5. Loving and Leaving
Amita Sanghavi, Oman
When I gathered The broken pieces Of my shattered soul, I realised I had nothing But your hope To fasten them. When I collected The shreds Of my torn hope, I realised I had nothing But the thread Of your memories To sew them.
#6. Love is
Rituparna Khan, India
No poem knocked my door today... Be it of love or no love. No melody rummaged my heartbeats today... Be it of longing or belonging. No words seduced my fingers today... Be it of desire or retire. Only a realisation trickled down The memory lane of my being. Love is in its mellifluous vocab Attuned to our daily chores of bread and butter. Love is not just a day. Love is...just is.
#7. Way to My Fighter
Parvathy Ramachandran, India
When every take off is optional, But every landing, mandatory. I chose to take off, Knowing fully well that the landing Would be unpredictable, may be a hard one. Although he reminded – Flying isn’t inherently dangerous. The landings could be. Still, I took off; After all, what’s life without a bit of spice? It’s then for the first time, I saw the resplendent Earth from the sky. So was he to me always – A mysterious wonder, bordering on the mystical! Delighted me in the warmth of his will. He made me feel, I am precious indeed. Quite anew, after each discourse we made. In promise of no returns. And a day was enough, to satiate the throbbing heart, To make memories for a lifetime. Each passing day, realisation dawned That we are the light in the other’s life. And we guided one another. We spoke freely, the things – That couldn’t be spoken with others. Even when we deeply dwelt, Ourselves into greater pains. Further we were, each other’s solace too – Lent each other a helping hand in ease. More than any comfort could assure. He never forgot, A woman needs appraisal. And simply did it, in his own way. He adored my smile, Thinking it’s all happiness. He adored my writing, Thinking it’s all worthy. Well, at last he adored the woman in me. Knowing the magnanimity of my love – My unrequited love! Well, I praised my fighter too. Precious was he to me, much precious! Rarest of the rare and ruthless. Alarming were his visits, but the Solace and strength he gave Held my heels, head, and standards high. Alas, when long distance love story seemed a fantasy, he Nectared and nurtured me, like a bee. Touched me so delicate, for I shouldn't be Hurt, hurt by thought or deed, word, or action. And I praised my fighter too, without any restraint or limit. The finest of the fine: My life, My breath, and My paramour. And he topped me again over and over For all joys our ways. With no compromises of pain or pleasure, And no practical difficulty of affairs. He, the perfect gentleman! Though we never made any promise – We laughed and laughed, We loved and loved, Until our unconditional love, Ignited the Late-Night Lantern. And we always held our hands tied – So tightly tied, That our journeys, Led us together to, the Blooms of Perpetuity.
#8. One Last Time
Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein, Bangladesh
Tied to a shallow heart What does it want to bring me? Where does it want to take me? Or it wants to find out the reasons why Or it wants me to try For one last time? Ghost, memories, and shadows They take pieces of me. Each time I want to try, I wait in my empty soul, With the feeling that it’s closing in. I had a dream that I was etherized. But nobody was there. And if I try for one last time, will it be the same? Broken heart with all the deceptions, betrayals and lies. Let the waves take my pain away. But to find out the reasons why Is it worth trying for one last time?
#9. Lost in Love…
Rajashree Mohapatra, India
I have lost myself in that enchanted moment of divine bliss my Love! I have surrendered myself to you for our union without shame, without hesitation! Love asks for complete surrender, an immersion, a loss of selfhood as the river loses herself in the sea, as the earth merges seamlessly in the sky in a kiss that, both losing their illusory lives in the astral void!
# 10. Erroneous Love
Kamrun Nahar, Bangladesh
We are standing for a long, long time Branches are gossiping by taking us Chirping birds are taking place So many times, in between us… We remain silent and feel for us… Grey mud tries to hold the root The passionate love Where hyacinth is still swaying And talking about us. Last summer, did I ever meet you? Can you remember me? We were so young; so green Reds always did praise for us Peace touched heart so many times… War needs love which denied by us Passionate love, do you really exist? Please hold your lantern And make some sound The new genera wait for you… They want to listen something from you That late summer is not spring And spring is not a flowery road.
#11. The Hungry Nights
Arindam Roy, India
You have travelled across eons and centuries – Your fluid body and wide-eyed expressions Were strewn on the carved images of The Sun Temple at Konark, You were there, for me, In the erotic figurines of Khajuraho. I saw your beauty swell In the Tribhang posture of a graceful Odissi danseuse I saw you melt into different Bhavas and Mudras To the mellifluous strains of Jayadeva’s Geeta Govindam I danced to the waves of your Flower-decked long plait That caressed the swell and sway Of your ample hips I was ecstatic as your full ripe breasts Heaved with love and desire I drank the nectar of your luscious lips I drank your smiles I was thirsty for all your desires, your fantasies I drank the joys of a million kisses Known and unknown, Through several births. I inhaled your fragrance Was trapped between your silky thighs Like a bumble bee imprisoned In a Lotus. In ecstasy, I drank your beauty I quenched my unquenchable thirst, Even if it was for a while, a few fleeting moments In the huge cycle of time. I cupped and caressed your fair breasts Like the sculptor – He immortalised you in the figurines of Konark and Khajuraho, While I found you In a distant land, Waiting with songs For you and me… And when I entered the Garba Griha With the offerings and prayers of millions, I found that we were making love – Wild and ecstatic, On a bed of fragrant jasmine. When I entered your moist depths You clenched me with longings of centuries, We were grinding and sliding against each other All through the fragrant night… And as you clasped me with your arms and legs And pulled me, deep, into you. We gave grammar to our ardent desires. We made love for a long, long time We were unmindful of the shameless moon, The crickets, the flying bats or The Owl that preyed. We were unmindful of the howling winds That tried to keep pace with us, in vain. We even forgot the shameless rain That strummed on the windowpanes. By turns, we were nocturnal predators and preys – We were unmindful of the open window Of our hotel room In a faraway land – Our wild lovemaking Were witnessed by the pillows and crumpled bedsheets. We devoured each other With a primitive hunger We were unstoppable Till we spent our juicy songs Into each other. Many moons ago, On those hungry nights We became each other’s For this birth, For the many, before this birth, And many more births to come. The erotic figurines of Konark and Khajuraho Shall be mute witnesses – The statues are hungry, Forever hungry: For births For Love For Songs.
Picture design by Anumita Roy, Different Truths
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