Tag Archives: poems

writings on the wall

A warm hug 🙆and Namastey🙏 to all my WordPress family( the blogs I follow,the blogs who follows me and the future blogs I will be following and vice-versa). Lately I haven’t been able to paint the WordPress wall with my words because of my busy schedule( college, classes and my Ama being quite unwell) . But still I have managed to write  quite a few lines before bed or while travelling by bus. So these are the pictures of my work.👇👇👇👇 Happy writing and reading.💗💗💗💗💗💗

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Thank you for visiting by blog an giving a minute or two reading my simple writings😇I hope it was worth reading/ worth taking your time. Hope you all enjoyed. Check out my other posts -articles/poems. Wish you all a very happy today / tomorrow. Keep praying and do not let your smile die.

With  infinite 💗💞

P.R_ timeandreflections

Source – Google

  I woke up and 

Placed myself in front of the mirror

That carefully detailed my features

The face, the eyes, the nose, the lips and my hands

My spotted skin, few scars and freckles

My smile with teeth not visibly bright; few lost

My natural  silver hair ,Few black dyed and artificial

They say my  skin, thin and pale; loose and sagged breast.

I call it elasticity with

channels of blue nerves visible and

Every  year the invisible artist sculpts

What people called wrinkles on my face

But I call them dimples

My eyes recently got rid of that cataract still nothing changed

 And the power keeps on  increasing

The skin isn’t the same like it was when my mother first breast-fed me.

That change is just permanent

My lips  is forever sucked in. I find this a little weird,  funny as my ears too droops. 

But do not worry

Oh! it’s the gravity that has pulled it down.

No more does the blood river within me flows

The ascending years have mutated me

In a beautiful way. Still I am me the same person with my story unchanged.

I did not worry like the evil queen in Snow White and the seven dwarfs

Even when my mirror spoke and showed me the glimpses of my future days

Instead I was happy because 

He who created me is an Artist and I myself his Art.

Having consumed so much of this Earth

I will still have nothing to repay her back

Except after my death,my decomposed self

Ready to merge with her;

 Still ready and willing to turn each page

Thank God! you never age…

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/measure/

DEAR LIFE (never let yourself go)

The bundled pain might prick you

So very bitter and unhealthy

For your heart or for your body.

They might ache more than

The fresh burns you just had

You might apply a band-aid

But that proper medicine

Is an undiscovered priority.

Your closed bedroom,the locked heart

Is all  rusted with

Heaps of untold secrets…

Even those silent sobs

Your quilt cannot cover

Neither that door.

Afraid that the sound might penetrate

All you are left is with screams,

Screams that are louder than the roars

Visibly audible only to your ears.

Nights growing more cruel than the days

Your mom may bid you goodnight

But your sleep have boarded  the flight

Leaving you with an inevitable depression

A nocturnal animal you have become.

So no one except your dog can understand .

Handcuffed by these inescapable pains

Even your skin have grown pale and purple

Because they have stayed stagnant

Like erupted drops of blood , freshly clotted

Why don’t you let them flow?

Deep within they remain forever cloistered.

Why don’t you let them go?

When it has become that pernicious parasite,

Burning and eating you alive.

Do you simply want to turn into ashes?

like that piece of paper (I see there is something written on it);

or that wood (it provided shelter to many);

or that ragged cloth? that warmed those bare skin.

You might feel like

Befriending that rope

And welcome the untimely death.

But simply perishing away

With a marble tomb behind,

Is not an option to embrace.

Better  embark on this mysterious journey

With the seed of purpose that is yet to blossom.

Why be that treacherous villain? a murderer of thy self?

For whom every punishment is worthless.

Look back in time

See how much you have earned. I mean not money

But the glorious wealth-friends,families.

So ending this sweet-salty life is that option

Not even an abandoned on the streets would dare take.

Life is so very valuable

Not even that famous Kohinoor can buy
So better dance your pain out

singing  and accepting the rhythm of moments.

Remember? how we all have danced

To that childhood rhyme:

“Ring A Ring O’Roses

A Pocket Full of Posies

A-Tishoo! A-Tishoo!

We All fall down”

But we all have stood up,

Forgetting the falling pains

See the best ailment is to laugh.

So my dear friend

Never fall prey to suicide

Better unstich the patterned pains

That so long have bruised

Your submerged universe.

Unlocking that rusted chambers

Be like that swift  river always flowing,

Undisturbed from the mountains ,hills

Valleys , deserts and plains

Sometimes meandering

Until they become ocean silent…

Life offers us with million colours of pleasures and pain

And in its varied flavours ,

We  have so much to gain.

-P.R.

Continue reading DEAR LIFE (never let yourself go)

Darjeeling is all dazzling with Rhododendrons.

Pic courtesy: .P.R .Every year I am in love with this beauty. Rhododendron arboreum blushing in Mall Road.

See who is blushing?

The luminous beauty,magnificent

She wears no artificiality, 

Reflecting her true self

All we can do is just gaze

The marvellous sight like

Fine paintings of red hearts

Every year its the same time

She is ever ready to meet her groom

The unrivalled beauty

She is forever an untouched bride.

©P.R
Desire

Journey

source: google

Sometimes its about the moon and stars,

Sometimes its all about those little scars.

Sometimes its that little care ,

Sometimes its about the lice in your hair.

Sometimes its meeting strangers far and wide,

Sometimes its about you and me all day and night.

Sometimes its the thoughts disturbing night,

Sometimes its the air calm and quiet.

Sometimes its the splattering rain,

Sometimes its about healing pain.

Sometimes its the secret lies,

Sometimes its that instant smiles.

Sometimes its those musical laugh and cry,

Sometimes its those wound gone far and dry.

Sometimes its about that funny dance,

Sometimes its all about a hundred chance.

Sometimes it is love and kisses,

Sometimes its about those lost wishes.

Sometimes it is that tortured heart,

Sometimes its about stiching the gap.
Days more spent yet thousand awaiting in chains,

Crossing bridges and winding up the narrow lanes.

My whimsical journey is in pursuit of palpable meaning,

Learning alphabets – a, b ,c and d,was just the beginning.

©P.R

Hideout

Hear my  poem by clicking the link below.

https://soundcloud.com/puja-kulung-rai/journey-a-poem-by-p-r-1

Grace

​Gravity never pulled me down

It always lifted me up

That is why

Even when you

Plucked all my feathers

And blood oozed

I could still swim in the air.

This is not the end

They shot me with words

Disturbing my flow

I ate them

Carefully swallowing

As they corroded my throat

But I didn’t think of atom bomb

Instead alchemized

Those words

Into festoons of poems

Showering them with

Soothing songs

Just to heal their soul.

©P.R

This is my first time poetry in voice. I shared the video of this poem,myself reading it and I got a good response from my friends in facebook. With a positive heart,I am sharing this with all my wordpress friends.

Click on the link below to hear me reading my poem

https://youtu.be/oxmSaHeC4Yw

Tremble

Robert frost,“The Wood-Pile”

​Introduction by Peter Davison

February 3, 1999

In February of 1912 Robert Frost wrote a poem called “The Wood-Pile,” a poem that meant something special to him — he would single it out for reprinting in his annual Christmas card nearly fifty years later,just before he died. The poem emerged at a crossroads in his life: he was about to make “a great leap forward,” as he had written to the editor Susan Hayes Ward in 1911. That year the Frost family, after many years stuck on a farm in Derry, New Hampshire, had at last uprooted themselves enough to move, for a season, one hundred miles north to Plymouth, New Hampshire. There, Frost taught college students (women) for the first time in his life, and was observed to be speaking in a different, less formal, more casual way — a way new to him.

At Christmas in 1911 Frost took the train to visit Susan Ward — the only editor who had consistently encouraged his work — in New Jersey. Frost had sent her a sheaf of the last and best poems in A Boy’s Will,his first collection of poems (which he would publish in England in 1913). In New Jersey they spoke about his work and of his plans, as yet unannounced, for the future. After his return to Plymouth, Frost wrote to Ward as follows:
Two lonely crossroads that themselves cross each other I have walked several times this winter without meeting or overtaking so much as a single person on foot or on runners. The practically unbroken conditions of both for several days after a snow or a blow proves that neither is much travelled. Judge then how surpised I was the other evening as I came down one to see a man, who to my own unfamiliar eyes and in the dusk looked for all the world like myself, coming down the other, his approach to the point where our paths must intersect being so timed that unless one of us pulled up we must inevitably collide. I felt as if I was going to meet my own image in a slanting mirror. Or say I felt as we slowly converged on the same point with the same noiseless yet laborious strides as if we were two images about to float together with the uncrossing of someone’s eyes. I verily expected to take up or absorb this other self and feel the stronger by the addition for the three-mile journey home. But I didn’t go forward to the touch. I stood still in wonderment and let him pass by; and that, too, with the fatal omission of not trying to find out by a comparison of lives and immediate and remote interests what could have brought us by crossing paths to the same point in the wilderness at the same moment of nightfall. Some purpose I doubt not, if we could but have made it out. I like a coincidence almost as well as an incongruity.
To me the letter seems fateful. It signals the crystallizing of Robert Frost’s talent at Plymouth, his determination to “set forth for somewhere,” his hesitant welcoming of the true bond between speaker and hearer. The voice in which his poems would take place would alter shortly: it would be the voice more of the farmer than of the teacher, “the sound of speech.” And the poem he wrote next, in the same month he wrote this letter, was “The Wood-Pile,” the first-written poem and cornerstone of the collection he would entitle North of Boston when it was published in London in 1914.

The Wood-Pile
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,

I paused and said, “I will turn back from here.

No, I will go on farther — and we shall see.”

The hard snow held me, save where now and then

One foot went through. The view was all in lines

Straight up and down of tall slim trees

Too much alike to mark or name a place by

So as to say for certain I was here

Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.

A small bird flew before me. He was careful

To put a tree between us when he lighted,

And say no word to tell me who he was

Who was so foolish as to think what hethought.

He thought that I was after him for a feather —

The white one in his tail; like one who takes

Everything said as personal to himself.

One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.

And then there was a pile of wood for which

I forgot him and let his little fear

Carry him off the way I might have gone,

Without so much as wishing him good-night.

He went behind it to make his last stand.

It was a cord of maple, cut and split

And piled — and measured, four by four by eight.

And not another like it could I see.

No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.

And it was older sure than this year’s cutting,

Or even last year’s or the year’s before.

The wood was gray and the bark warping off it

And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis

Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.

What held it though on one side was a tree

Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,

These latter about to fall. I thought that only

Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks

Could so forget his handiwork on which

He spent himself, the labor of his ax,

And leave it there far from a useful fireplace

To warm the frozen swamp as best it could

With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
Frost’s poem speaks of finding a kind of order hidden away in the depths of the woods, that perfectly cut and measured cord of wood, “four by four by eight,” the only one to be found, a cord of wood tied up with a cord of — what? — of clematis. It is a poem about trees, like those that had sounded over the house in Derry, and which Frost would write about in “The Sound of Trees.” (“They are that that talks of going/ But never gets away…./ I shall set forth for somewhere,/ I shall make the reckless choice …”) These trees are “too much alike” to let the speaker know “whether I was here or somewhere else.” When the bird hides from the walker he puts trees between them; and when the walker finds the wood-pile it is propped between one live tree and one dead stake, like a body of work that is propped between the established civilization of Europe and the live-but-frosty land of New England, between the meter of a poem and its rhythm, between stasis and motion.
Any careful reader of Frost’s work can point to twenty or thirty of his poems that tell in one form or another what he thought to be the story of his life, the story of a man who ran away from civilization, quitting for his own reasons, and went off into the woods, at the risk of getting lost, and found there something worth taking note of, something that lay at the heart of the mystery, a directive, say, or a star in a stone boat, or a pasture spring, or the song of a darkling thrush — or a decaying wood-pile. In this, the first of his truly great poems, he finds warmth in observing how the labor of our hands ends in “the slow smokeless burning of decay.” The syntax and artistry of this poem’s last sentence may embody Robert Frost’s discovery of his true mission as a poet.

Source: The Atlantic Online via Facebook

Wishes

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/calm/”>Calm</a&gt;

I want to plunge into

That deep dark forest

To breathe in that unpolluted air

To kill my thirst with pure spring water

To hear not the chaotic horns but

The melodious voice,the wild music

New songs that birds composes instantly

I an alone audience,Enjoying,

Not the view of that tall skyscrapers

But the high mountain Pines

Rising and still touching the clouds.

Calm“>Calm

Wild Women

image

Wild wild women.
We are so different
How can we be you,
Or you be us?
Our walk,our talk,
The way we work
Oh! all so different
How can we be you
Or you be us?.
Our body
Every month that  silent pain,
Quietly befriends us
Does it match yours?
How can it?
The vital essence
Of change we carry
The varied roles we play
From home
to the outside space.
Wild wild women are we
We clothe ,we dress
sometimes curtain ourselves
But No their eyes can never
Get curtained.
So when we wear that makeups
Or a sleeveless dress
They think it to be
An attraction for a male gaze
She is not that silly
Her world-beyond that gaze
Is perhaps an inner happiness.
This is how we differ.
So how can we be you or you be us?
From a dirty water emerges
A lotus.
Will she not let you see her?
Yes and that is Nature and
With her we stand
Wild beautiful women,
Free from the cages
That once mutilated
her wings, her dreams and so on
We choose to remain different.
Yes we were born different
Not from the ribs of Adam
But from this fertile Nature
With a womb,a gift-sacred and fruitful.
So how can we ever be you,
Or you be us?
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@pr_timeandreflections
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A New Her

He wrapped her, gave her warmth,
She melted.
More closer steps,visions more blurred,
Until she was enclosed and locked.
Silently he became a heartless refrigerator
And turned her into pieces of frozen water.
“Did he destroy you?” I asked.
“No”, said she,“ my pieces gathered together
More solid more stronger than ever,
An Arctic ice was what he now feared.

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