The Art of Being Human Volume 11 by Compiled & Edited by Daniela Voicu & Brian Wrixon: Poetry | Blurb Books.
My haiku on page 17. Click on image or link to read the full book! Thanks Daniela Voicu and Brian Wrixon.
Autumn Poetry by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry | Blurb Books.
A bookful of falling leaves
“Autumn” and ” Autumn resurrected” in here along with a number of autumn leaves from friends. Thank you Brian Wrixon.
Summer Poetry by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry | Blurb Books.
My poems “Sucking vigour ” and “Flame” on pages 131-132. A lovely book full of the warmth of the earth and the mellow grace of the season.
Thank you Brian Wrixon.
Dedicated to a singer who poured music into spring
Spring pours itself
from a gorge
reposed in the shadows
of lovers who loved not enough
red blossoms wet on her cheeks
grass creeping up
her ghungroo-ed feet
empties itself into a stream
An orphan remembers
A thumri begins in a breeze
a veena weeps
An alaap strums the night alive
Jahanaara walks by
jasmine buds in her plait
like tear drops
on a mirror
They meet in a culmination of notes
The night breaks
with a ragged music
The raag flowing from
him who sang himself
to ever sleep
leaving spring and her handmaids
orphaned in his songs
©Reena Prasad Published in “Spring Poetry”
*Anarkali – (pomegranate blossom) born Nadira Begum or
Sharf-un-Nissa, was a legendary slave girl.
*Ghungroo – a musical anklet tied to the feet of classical Indian dancers
*Thumri – a common genre of semi-classical Indian music
*Alaap – a dialogue between the musician and the raag
*Jahanaara- Queen of the World / Universe -Jahanara-“Princess of
Princesses” -Year 1627, India
Princess Jahanara, the favorite daughter of Shah Jahan and his wife
Winter Poetry by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry | Blurb Books.
Thank you Brian Wrixon for this beautiful Christmas release . Three poems of mine in this deliciously fresh and invigorating book on pages 115-117.
Click on book pic. to read the e-version.
1. A winter’s tale
2. A different winter
1. A winter’s tale
Tread gently. Here sparrow feathers of memory are tousled
by a cool breeze. A lukewarm sun hovers; a smile on the wintery grass
Time pauses letting thoughts play hopscotch
this was where the lines merged and a flat stone landed smoothly
A fallen flower releases its petals but there is no sadness here
Abandoned reason wanders flicking dewdrops off green stalks
The still street lies in wait but the dust has settled in for a lifetime
The shadows lengthen every hour, fading into the familiar dust
The stone once kicked from school to home is a frozen blob of apathy
The ghost of a winter still welcomes but the pale parchment of a mind
couldn’t weather any more frosts.
2. A different winter
Moving uphill, a wan sun trips over frozen avalanches
melting their fury into rivulets
warming the grazing sheep on the hillside
Bonfire nights spark tender moments
Old haunts revisited in the company of older friends
Smells of warmth baking in shared kitchens
Fledging bonds stir alive, dignity nourishes older ones
Leisurely late-night chats, giggles under warm covers
passing warmth from wrinkled cheeks to chubby ones
Keeping the cold gale at bay is yet another hopeful day
The ice may not melt any sooner, no reason to postpone living
Snow is merely a blanket covering the floral mats of spring
Cold dew sprinkled on fallen leaves
I lie under them, a memory cloak around me
Squirming, pushing away the snow
trying to find the door behind which a fire beckons
the orange vision scorching my frozen toes
It dangles tantalizingly near then disappears
Another round of leaves fall and I sleep
My search silenced by winter’s glee
By Reena Prasad
He wrote verses on the female form, his quill teasing out blushes wherever he stroked
Tender soft yet sure- the edge of his passion as he dipped his feather into her shadows
Sacred and inviting – all at once she lay back and let art take the lead
he found that his deft touch made her glow as he scribed the softness along each proud curve
Smearing his ink all over her wanton tresses for they insisted on lying upon unopened buds,
he conjured the dimples that only art could know, put a firm feather tip down and wrote for the world
It trembled but it wrote with the finesse of a lover, tremulous with what it had touched before
insistent that it should reveal its awe to every soul, confident that lovers could read what it meant to love
Beauty, love denounced, now languish in shrouds, we struggle to write about love in sorry metaphors
The finest of life has been pronounced a sin even though freely tasted centuries ago
©Reena Prasad 7th feb 2013
Published in the Anthology ” The art of being human ” Vol 2 . Link here.