Worship for the future devout
The prodigal plastic barbie
pictures of bigots
excavated mud pots
violent souvenirs
kitchen sinks
driftwood from oceans
unsold poetry books
rejected manuscripts
vomit of the disgusted earth
Remnants of lost prisons
wandering insanity
human chains masquerading as divine bracelets
glass marbles buried by little fingers
A little doll lies under rocks
its owner lost to the sea
to resurface in a new impuissant world
walking on moon and stars
yet looking to the sky and sea
for bonus divine intervention
Build a hallowed pedestal
if you are human
Declare the orphaned toy
a god.

©Reena Prasad edited on 3rd march 2013

Published in Daniela Voicu’s anthology “http://revistacuib.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/revista-martie-20131.pdf



Deeper, deeper into the darkness
I walk bewildered yet uncaring,
Lost in an inner maze of hard-earned miseries
Brought on by too much love and sharing
The hanging boughs, the whispering notes
Speak to me as if with hope
The moonlight streams gently down
revealing a wistful path ahead
I gather the cold night around myself
Walking towards the familiar dell.

My impatience rustles the fallen leaves
It is the hour when she must alight
Dropping swiftly from her horse
She emerges from the cloak of night
Running, falling, yet wondering at the sight!
Healing angel of mine, I need your glow
I cannot bear the night within my soul.
There she is! My wisps gather strength again
With her hair sweeping the taupe forest floor
She lights my woods with her blazing flames!

I fall on my knees and fervently pray
Even though she appears not to turn my way
Eyes open never to miss a moment
Of her much needed, gentle, sisterly finesse
The thunderous days that lurked around
Seem mere nights before the day,
freshly breaking ground
She swishes her hair, the clouds disappear
Revealing a Hunter’s Moon in a brave new form
The trees fall silent as she spreads
The scent of roses in my teary abscesses.

And as she mounts her snorting steed
I am still here on my grateful knees
Blowing a soft kiss onto the breeze
She floats up gently till I can no longer see
My bleeding wounds have healed themselves
leaving sweet scars of happy moments
My joy, I can feel it rolling down the hill
As morning comes, you too shall be healed
Flowers are nodding as I pray for you
Their softness wiping my tears always true.

The journey we shared has not been in vain
Self-healing angels still live in bruised heavens.




A doldrum drumming of ‘Dhaak’,never.
A rhythm punctuated with cymbal crashes
Artistic divinity conjured up
in swirling ‘aarti’ smoke screen etchings
Fiery red paths blaze into blackish-grey forests
above ‘kumkum’ embellished sixth ‘chakra’ gates
widened into spiritual highways.
A pure face in sarcoline clay
her piercing gaze enters
into culture-clamoring chambers of common cores
rivaling the silver ‘trishul’ tip.
The ‘Sudarshan’, the thunderbolt
All shooting comets of fear
into habitually sinning whorls.


Women celebrate the home-coming
of the cosmic energy aggregate of celestial powers.
Her multi-tasking hands work harder than ever
to decimate the rapidly proliferating opportunistic demons.
A dying ‘Mahishasura’ at her feet
mauled by her snarling ‘Manashtâla’
The ultimate fate of a sinner,
a compelling portent to potential ones
Tongues waggle in vernacular rhythms
A thrilling conch call aborts the agnostic season
piously throwing a protective ‘Chaitanya’
to disrupt the soul-gnawing negative energy fields.


‘Gupchup’sellers with crispy, puffed morsels
Dispense their sweat flavoured wares
to ravenous, suddenly casteless people
united in their desire to drown
the creaking protests of ungreased joints
pushing the allotted cart of life
in the tangy spiciness of the
black, salted tamarind waters.
A celebration uniting the poorest rickshaw puller
with starched cotton sari elegance
and street artists in their erudite makeovers.
A compulsive, cultural desire sweetening
the ‘Akaal Bhodon Puja’ days
on either side of the Indian rupee.


The pitch tunes into unmanifest frequencies,
the crowd surges in feverish rhythm,
Kids make a beeline for the’prasad’
‘Anjali’ flowers shower on countless heads
‘Chaitighodas’ thump away in Ambagan
Stupor inducing sweet white smoke
emanating from burning coconut shells in earthen pots
as the youth sway away to the  comforting’Dhaak
A mythological canvas of resplendent ‘pandals’
Gleaming silver framing the fierce deities,
reaffirming the supremacy of woman power
in a land desperately struggling  to defend
the dignity of its dutiful daughters.


The chosen one

This flower is an undelible part of my childhood. Many are the happy hours, I should say years  , that I have spent under this fragrant shade. We never had a camera then and I never understood why this scent has always stayed with me for so many years.

                                                    Only recently did I read something on it- and what I found made my memories even more precious. This is the Night Jasmine /Coral jasmine/ also called Parijatha in India. It is held as sacred and is supposed to have emerged from the oceans during the churning of oceans by gods and demons. It is supposed to be the first gift  to humankind hence its sacred status. Finally … Most importantly… It is supposed to be none other than a  “WISH GRANTING TREE””  !!!  .

                                                     Now all the mystery is clear–why I had the most wonderful childhood ever.. the loveliest friends, the sweetest pets.. everything everything…….

A poem for this lovely tree and its beautiful flowers as a Thank you from me!!

“You were special, little one
He chose you from all the fallen ones”


The chosen one


The afternoon breeze had a graceful sway
A little flower was on its way
It peeped out of its curly whorls,
smiling as the playful air rubbed its nose.
The ocean above was too far away
but other tiny buds were willing to play
Bathing in freshness of youth’s vigor,
the essence burst from its own fragrant core
Soon its fledging petals arrived
like the fairy wings on butterflies
Never envying the floral giants
that stood tall with royal pride,
the fledging coral-flower saw shy dreams
of being a jewel on a radiant bride.


Cruel was the monsoon ‘s tyrant gale,
it chose the very afternoon to arrive
The quivering, little flower was dashed
on earth’s grassy bosom, still alive
Sobbing tears broke its tender heart
It rued its miniscule, transient life
Why did God make it blossom
Only for misfortune to strike?
The green grass fed it sweet raindrops
till a little girl came with a brass basket
And collected the newly fallen coral-blossoms
Lo ! temple bells rang and God smiled
as holy hands smelling of sandalwood
placed the flower reverently at his lotus feet!