Poetry Collection-1

Drops

 

Forever writing,
the pen, weary of the writer’s tireless fingers,
sought a day off –
by emptying its ink.

Fragrant flowers bloom
only to wither –
isn't that their fate?

A gentle touch –
the breeze of nature passes by.
To wipe the sweat in between,
the breath of a machine blows.
Interval ends...
and sweetly, the interview begins !

The ant may be small,
but its pain –
is mighty for its size.

Drops of Love

 

The pains of love –
born from a clash.
And in that clash,
love meets its end.

A glowing flame,
the lamp she became –
could I not be the breeze
that brushes past her softly,
melting entirely
into her light?

What was looted,
was lost.
What held honor,
turned into love.

To reach the fruit
on the tree’s high branch,
an ant climbs with desire –
only to fall
with a gust of wind.
So do I fall,
whenever I come close to you.

Monsoon clouds
seem to borrow
their dark shade
from a maiden’s hair.

She is a good soul –
just not meant
for my love.

She brought me light
only to torment me.
Afraid of how near I came,
she tossed me away
like a burning matchstick.

 

The Matchstick

 

They know –
a matchstick is understood
only when struck.
And yet,
it never leaves
without offering its purpose.

By igniting,
by sharing,
by giving others life,
it chooses to end
its own.
Isn’t a matchstick,
then,
a martyr too?

Born of friction,
I vanish into the wind.
But you –
a being born of the same spark –
carry the breeze
as a gift to others.

                      — Yours truly,
                          The Matchstick

 

The One I Call Mine

 

He did not see me
as a mother,
as a sister,
as a younger sibling,
as a lover,
as a wife,
as a daughter,
nor as a daughter-in-law.

He saw me...
as a part of himself.

 

She

 

She –
the one called “she” –
becomes a mother who offers love,
a sister born before you,
a younger sibling born after,
a friend who shares your days,
a lover who shares your soul,
a wife who shares your life,
a woman who bears the burden of the womb,
a goddess after giving birth,
a child again in your arms,
a daughter who carries “you” in hers.
And yet,
you –
you become a beast
who fears her gaze.

 

The Hour of the Night

 

The husband and wife,
two hearts
studying in the same school of love.

Their bodies,
ready to announce the exam of desire.

But –
Sleep, a student,
asks leave from this test.
Longing, another student,
applies for admission into the same school.

One heart hesitates in shyness,
the other pleads in yearning.
As both try to approach
the test called passion –
it is canceled.

The bell that rang...
was the cry
of their child.

 

Poetry

 

To write letters with a pen,
to fill paper with imagination,
to give form
to the formless –

to weave atoms into art,
to blend in beauty,
to shape words
that invite one to read –

to pour out vivid imagery –
what a miracle created by humankind...
the magnificent marvel
called Poetry!

 

Waiting for Her

 

Eyes that wait,
longing to see you —
and once they do,
worries melt away.

In your beautiful smile,
wonders bloom,
yet sink in silent bitterness.

A drama unfolds
in the blink of an eye,
but the moments
never truly last.

Yet the memories…
they never leave
so easily.

 

My Beloved

 

Within my eyes, deep within my eyes,
I see – at every moment –
the face of a maiden...
That face is my beloved’s.

Within every tune,
within every song I sing,
she comes, in many hues,
my gentle one — my precious muse!

Within my heart, deep within my heart,
like a stream, memories flow –
unfading, unceasing,
for I dwell in her thoughts every day.

Even beneath the soil,
even if I lie in the earth,
she shall not fade –
for within my soul...
she lives forever.

 

Love Blossomed

 

Without a warning,
you appeared before me.
You passed me by –
and my heart,
restless, asked
why I looked at you at all.

Fear held me back
from lifting my gaze,
yet your arrows,
launched through your eyes,
did not miss their mark.

The heart that was once mine
caught a glimpse of you –
and without asking me for leave,
departed that very moment,
only to reach you.

Love took root
right then, right there.

Tell me now –
this love that bloomed as you walked away...
will it bloom again in union?
Or will it wither,
unfulfilled?

 

Love

 

Eyes steal glances in secret,
hands entwine in playful delight,
letters rush like birds in flight,
emotions exchange in whispers of wind,
and dreams bloom – day after day.

There’s joy and celebration in abundance,
but also worry, and tears that sting the eyes.

Love is entwined with art –
it inspires poems to be written,
songs to be sung,
feet to dance,
and stories to unfold.

With time,
it turns into an epic.

It lives in every scene we see,
etched in moments,
its words rooted in time –
unshaken.

And love – true love –
walks only the path of triumph
till the very end.

                    -by Nandagopal G