Autumn Resurrected

Photo credit : Internet site. Click on Photo
Autumn resurrected

The path turned away from the bustle of life
We halted, finally alone with the tall trees
The floor, a striped carpet of sun and shade
Around us an orange rain of leaves
You kissed my hands, gently pushed me down
A replay of a younger season
In your dark eyes, a scented image lurked
Of green mangoes and silver-belled strings

I want this scene to break its waters
even if it leaves me irrevocably broken
So there I am under the tall trees
caressed by a vagrant breeze
but it seems this you cannot bear
You are on your knees shoveling furiously
till the assonance of twin coral-crested baubles
beneath a leaf-bejeweled corset
dissolves your peace

I stretch and fill my autumn grave
deliriously content to be slaughtered
by skin, breath and unrestrained vigor
my back cushioned by purple heather
A delicate conspiracy of creation
murmuring its delight in my ears

That was then

Not long now
before you join me under the forest floor
A space waits alongside my imprints
A space to which I sometimes flee
to make sure you haven’t reached
before my time is breeched

Our spring has spilled over several seasons
I am a wistful bloom minus her green sepals
You juggle wildfires-a defiant breeze
whenever we meet
I try to hold on to my cast-off skins
But you devour each one, my fanged king
leaving me bare
A tree birthing itself every autumn
©Reena Prasad

Published in Brian Wrixon’s Autumn Anthology- the last of the set of season anthologies to be out in a day or two.

The well of spring

Dedicated to a singer who poured music into spring

Spring pours itself
from a gorge
Anarkali appears
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
his beginnings
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

filling desolation
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” Spring poetry
March 2014

*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
Mumtaz Mahal

Winter Poetry by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry

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

3. Frozen

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

Post Kalidas


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.

The busker


Above the clatter of the cast steel wheels
a song arrives
before its frail box does
A piece of human flotsam in a frayed shirt
offers raucous-sounding words
in tune to the train’s gravelly rattles over the tracks
An item girl’s apparition gyrates
in the narrow mental aisles between colliding knees
Some hum along, popping roasted peanuts
to tide over the breathing pauses
while the artist/busker/beggar
carries his desperation/art/hunger, row to row
pocketing the furtive glances full of disgust/repulsion/loathing
as they skim over his unsightly gifts
With no pretence to art /aesthetics,
he is a latent impoverished bomb,
a damp canvas of  fleshy, leprosy bubbles
but here his song ends and his palm stretches
Loose change from pockets clears the dismal air
The last teats of sympathy and revulsion milked,
he shuffles off the train
humming to himself till the next long whistle
©Reena Prasad JUN 2013

Published in “The art of being human”  VOL 2 anthology .

Heavens Above Poetry Below by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry | Blurb Books

Mankind has always been intrigued by the wonders found in the night sky. In this intensely powerful book of poetry, sixty-one members of the international writers’ group, Poets with Voices Strong, share their feelings about how the Heavens Above impact them and their Poetry Below.

via Heavens Above Poetry Below by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry | Blurb Books.
Three poems of mine in this lovely anthology by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry | Blurb Books. Many thanks to Brian Wrixon for his untiring efforts.