P O E T R A M A

Today on this Blog we begin a new feature on Poetry in all its variegated facets, including the regular posts of my new poems, occasionally along with poems by others, and a continuing column on POETICA which will present brief notes on various aspects of poetry, and also occasionally collectible material on poetry on the international scene. 

Seven of my poems have been selected for publication in two international    anthologies : 

1. Kistrech Poetry Festival, largest annual literary festival in Africa bringing local & international poets together on one platform. Two of my poems given below are published in this Anthology MUSINGS DURING A TIME OF PANDEMIC : A World Anthology of Poems on Covid-19, ed. by Christopher Okemwa, Kisii University, Kenya (www.okemwa.com)

2. LITEROMA : An international Magazine (literomainc@gmail.com) published from Kolkata (India) where in its Nov. 2020 issue, 5 of my poems ( The Pitcher, The Leaf, Hi, Krishna & Marigold Garland are given further below & The Football) are published, with the three new ones given hereunder.

In our next post under POETICA, I shall very soon
give a brief note on POETRY & PUNCTUATION. 

Song of the Wind

 Nature goes

On a cycle of

Dawn and dusk
Seed and tree
Drop and river

Cloud and pool

Rock and dust

Log and coal

But it would also -
Invisibly, unseen,
Unheard -  recycle
The dusk into dawn
The tree into seed
The river into drop

The pool into cloud

The dust into rock

The coal into log

 

No one knows how

No one understands

No one pauses to think

Though the cycle

Goes on irreversibly

From moment to moment

The cycle never stops

 

Only the magpie, the frog,

The snake, the grass

Aye, the wind, too,

Hears and feels and knows

The song that is playing

And they all swing and jump

And fly and crawl

And blow with its rhythm.

Corona call

Why every night

This past week

At this forlorn hour

The Titihri bird comes

Screeching  and circling

 High in the dark sky ?

What does it say to all below

In the soundless fear-stricken city?

To the sprawling vacant roads?

 

Where have all the people gone?

Where are all those glittering cars?

The whole city seems dead and empty,

A city till recently bustling with activity,

Again and again the circling bird asks -

Ti-ti-whooo, ti-ti-whooo!

 

But no one answers

Not the perplexed streetlamps,

Nor even the fretful trees

Standing with tensed leaves

Listening to the Titihri’s screams;

No one is there to answer

The lone Titihri bird’s screeches

Echoing all over the city –

Ti-ti-whooo, ti-ti-whooo!

The Football

Football is a game
Where the football
Runs always faster
Than the footballer
The players kick it
With calculated hit
But the ball will fall
Nearly everytime
Off the place meant
Not near the teammate
But the opponent
To thwart the kicker
And benefit the
Opponent player
The ball will have
Its own wilful choice
Of where to fall
And when and in
Which way so
As to turn the game
In its own chosen
Direction, and not
The way the kicker
Or the blocker or
Even the roaring
Crowd wanted
But in the way
The football itself
Wanted to turn
The game.

The players thought
They controlled the game
By kicking the ball
Whichever way they
Wanted it to fly
Or slither in a pass -
A long or short one -
Hit by their boots or
Even by their bare heads
But the football
Flies on it's own
Chosen trajectory
And falls at its own
Chosen points in
The unmoving field
And decides by itself
Which side it wants
To win, which to lose.

It is the football
Playing the footballer
Not the other way round!

And it is the football
Always winning and
Never the footballer!

(C) Dr BSM Murty

Photo: Courtesy Google