Poems of closet poets: From romance to war, unpublished poets write about them all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 On World Poetry Day today (March 21), 30 Stades has put together unpublished poems of some poets – they are journalists, students, teachers, mothers and more.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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