Poems of closet poets: From romance to war, unpublished poets write about them all

There are lakhs of people who write poetry but never get their works published. On World Poetry Day today (March 21), 30 Stades has put together unpublished poems of some poets – they are journalists, students, teachers, mothers and more. Some of them have authored books, but their poetry is not yet public. Enjoy these pieces, straight from the heart:

                                                Kargil Heights

By Abhijit C Chandra

Tread respectfully here with a heart full of reverence
For this cold ground is holier than the most sacred text,
If they had tongues these summits would have spoken
Of unparalleled valour and unequalled sacrifice
By brave Indian sons who will never be forgotten.

In the chequered history of a glorious and grateful land,
‘Never was so much owed by so many to so few’,
Both a balladeer’s fertile imagination and a poet’s pen
Fail to portray golden deeds through weak words,
One prays that those noble souls accept this tribute.

With clenched fists and righteous anger,
A nation learnt of intrusion into its territory,
The enemy came stealthily over the LoC
Like a common thief sneaks into a happy home
And then entrenched itself in our positions.

With confidence, courage and caution,
Indian soldiers advanced dauntlessly,
Officer and man stood as one entity
As shrapnel sliced through freezing air
But the heavy price was paid in blood.

Their names and victories will live for evermore
Lt Col R. Vishwanathan who fell in Drass,
Capt Anuj Nayyar and the assault on Point 4875,
Lt Saurabh Kalia – the hero of Bajrang Post,
Lt N. Kenguruse and the attack on Black Rock

Each year Kargil Vijay Diwas is July 26
Citizens remember the war dead
But let everyone solemnly pledge
To toil sincerely and live honestly
As a true tribute to those bravehearts.

(Abhijit C. Chandra, 46, originally hails from Kolkata and is a teacher in Bhopal. He worked as a journalist at the United News of India news agency for 22 years. Abhijit has two books to his credit - Bouquet of Life and Vignettes of Valour.)

Also Read: Kavishala: A personal blog that’s now a global publishing platform for poets and writers

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I stand alone

By Tavleen Chandok

Thoughts that never lie,
Troubles that get real
But choices which are surreal
In our desire to cherish life,
We forget to accept the truths
And another day
Just passes away
Nothing more to utter, I stand alone.

While watching the galaxy change its colour,
I realise the nights are always aesthetic
Feeling the void with every passing hour
I realise there’s no reality sharing my dreams
Nothing more to utter, I stand alone.

Thousands of rays touching my skin
With another day and another sin
Time passes yet it stands still
I move ahead without my will
Nothing more to utter, I stand alone.

Holding it all, I want to share if I get a chance
Without hiding from any stare or glance,
I keep moving around in the dark,
In search of my own light, I stand alone!

(Tavleen Chandok is a graphologist and a budding writer from Gujarat).

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My Mother's Perfume

By Anushka Basu

A breeze so gentle,
swept the lilac curtains away,
bringing back a sweet flowery scent I've known my entire life,
my mother's perfume.

Something fresher than the newly bloomed rose,
something as sweet as the love in her scoldings,
was it the perfume or the one who wore it?

It reminded me of our fights in my adolescent years,
and all the laughter in between,
the agony in her eyes when I scraped my knee as a child,
and the victorious smile at my achievements.

That fragrance lasted on my mind
longer than it should,
years went by and the bottle, went emptier,
filling my heart with the love and warmth
she showered all these years.

Now I sat in an empty room,
an unfaithful tear made its way through the corner of my eye,
the scent I've known forever,
a little fainter than usual.

I went to the drawer,
picked up a new bottle
and now the room was yet filled with memories and love,
as if enveloped in a motherly embrace.

(Anushka Basu is an avid reader, painter and writer who is enthusiastic about mythological stories. She is pursuing her Bachelor's in Arts from Bhopal’s Maharani Laxmibai College.)

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Nowhere to go

-By Narayani M

How long would it continue to hurt
Do I have to wait until my red blood is sucked out cold?
Or when the vultures devour my organs,
Peeling my skin like it's any other piece of meat
How long would it take for someone to spot
My naked bruised body
Amid the bushes and thorns
Grass, tunnels and rivers.

How long would it take for people to know
That it wasn't my fault
Despite clenching my dupatta tightly
And holding a pepper spray nearby
May be I should have chopped my wings
Or plucked my feathers, put it in a jar
Sealed it tight and thrown it away
While my eyes continue to be poked
By a bunch of hungry crows

May be a drone will find me
Amid the bushes and thorns,
Misogyny, sexism and the widespread patriarchy
How long would it take
For the society to stop blaming
My breasts, face, legs and arms
That are under my fully-covered salwar kameez
And instead focus on teaching men
The meaning of 'no' and 'stop'
And how to respect women

As I ponder over my life,
While lying inebriated and drugged
And almost ready to shut off
As immense pain shoots through my body
May be one day my clan would realise
That self defence and 'non-seductive' clothes are nothing but a sham
That it is wrong to shield my perpetrator
That it wrong to question my presence at any time of the day
Until then, continue to flash my face and name,
Teach girls that they would end up like me if they didn't behave,
Taunt my families, kill them emotionally
Because, "I asked for it," didn't I?

(Narayani M is a Chennai-based writer specialising in longform writing and human interest stories.)

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Also Read: Kolkata Little Magazine Library: one-man effort to preserve rare books & periodicals

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बारिश और हम

-- द्वारा रश्मि प्रताप

यह बारिश का मौसम भी अजीब है
हमेशा याद दिलाता है कौन कितना करीब है।

बचपन में बारिश दोस्तों के पास ले जाती थी,
कागज़ की कश्ती बनती थी, हँसी खिलखिलाती थी।

कुछ बड़े हुए तो बारिश से चिढ़ हो गयी,
किताबें ना भीग जाएँ, इस चिंता में कश्ती की यादें फुर्र हो गयीं।

काम करने लगे तो बारिश और मुसीबत हो गयी,
बिन भीगे दफ्तर पहुँचना एक जद्दोजहद हो गयी।

जब प्यार हुआ तो बारिश फिर एक बार भाने लगी,
किसी की मीठी-मीठी यादें दिल में जगाने लगी।

बारिश फिर एक बार सुकून देने लगी,
हँसी, मौज-मस्ती और एक जूनून देने लगी।

यही खेल खेलते-खेलते साल बहुत बीत गये,
बारिश का मतलब बदल गया, संग हम भी कितने बदल गये।

अब यह समझ में आया है की बारिश तो बस एक बहाना है,
असल में बदलाव ही जीवन का खेल पुराना है।

(Rashmi Pratap is a Mumbai-based journalist specialising in financial, business and socio-economic reporting)

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(Tavleen Chandok is a graphologist and a budding writer from Gujarat).

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Also Read: Labour Day : An ode to migrant workers & their life in pictures

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