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 .
LINK HERE .

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.

A Haiku Treasury by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry | Blurb Books


In this beautifully illustrated book of poetry, 77 members of the international writers’ group “Poets with Voices Strong” turn their hands to the intricacies of haiku. 5 of mine are here too. Thank you Brian Wrixon.

via A Haiku Treasury by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry | Blurb Books.

In Our Own Words Anthology


In Our Own Words by Poets with Voices Strong and Friends: Poetry | Blurb Books.

My poem ‘Nests’ is on page 105. Do read the free preview of the entire anthology and buy if possible. A unique work by Brian Wrixon and Poets with voices strong group where each poem is in what the poet considers as his or her signature style. My heart felt thanks to Brian Wrixon for this book and his passion and commitment to poetry.

Wake up~


The bells toll
but these are of bicycles
Jostling and pushing each other
in their hurry to reach where ever.
Small tea-shops, odd assortment
of ties, lungi, vest and shoes
gossip centering around the news.

Bread and cheese ones, in swanky mansions
– the television juggling their views.
Money controlling facial gestures
Get – a smile, take – a frown
Changing mental wallpapers
now simplified
The gory killing on the screen
neither shocks nor registers.
Indifference
and no after effects.

Murder
cold blooded murder
yet not of the person they think it was
Murder of faith as men turn into mercenaries
Misled by hunger- induced hallucinatory
images of being missionaries
Murder of the lone human race
Why kill? Why want something
in exchange of a death?

Humble origins of homo sapiens
maybe we still carry
some blue-green algae in our bloody veins
Our fishes, our trees, our tribe
Now
my land, my state, my country
Mission forgotten
to carry evolution forward
to safely hand over earth
to the unborn warriors
untaught in the chakravyuh of politics.

Exaggerating trivial issues
to the gory point
of a fellow being’s ultimate sacrifice
dividing lives into countries, faiths
amidst noise and hollow victories.

Hear pleas
crafted with the essence of loss
of crushed, sacrificed, innocent buds.
This was the promised land
They too wanted to throw stones
into the pond
to take a rain walk
to dream in the moon shine
But they could not
For their life lines were cut with hateful blades
even though earth had enough
for all.

Generation of blood art
Let us wipe out this unholy graffiti
from human walls
It is not too late.
©Reena Prasad 7th Feb 2012
Published in Brian Wrixon’s Anthology “The poetry of war and peace”

Nests


I remember a huge tree with anthills at its foot
on which the brown nests, kidney shaped
with tube- like extensions, swayed
The sun poking its bright fingers into my scrunched eyes
as I pedaled the last stretch home
my mind on them.
I lingered there after school
watching the cackling  birds
chase each other and dangle from
these precious nests wishing I had one
but not sure why I wanted it
Then one day I spotted a large, empty one on the grass
happiness was one hand on the handle bar,
the other fiercely hugging it to my school shirt
not knowing the female had rejected it
for not suiting her aesthetic sensibility
and the eager male had ripped it down
to build a better one for her
but for me it was perfection like none other.
Nailed between my father’s belt and the black umbrella
in the modest, little bedroom with peeling paint,
it stayed for a few weeks ,
losing its charm gradually
till it became a rotten smell and I came home one day
to find it gone.

©Reena Prasad 31st oct 2012 Published In Brian Wrixon’s anthology, In our own words