Kobita কবিতা Poetry

A Mother At The Crossroads by S B Ray on April 3.  © S B Ray, All rights reserved At the crossroads, Stood she, donning the sunset glow On her mien of a mother,   A mother unsung- Nonetheless a mother-    In her motherly poise. Through my glass window Told her motherly eyes With a mother's persona, An elderly woman's lonesome tale:   Emptiness of life, Disavowed, abandoned And desolate. She, With the motherly grace      Stretched, now frail mother's hands,   Palms open, Voice quivering,   Uttered frailly with feeble lips :   'Son'!   Long many years gone, Sang my mother That musical note of warmth,   'Son',   Like mother of anyone, Like this mother at the crossroads,   Which seemed so much my own!   Going pensively quiescent,   Dipped in a foggy muse,   Offered her some money-   Offering a handful for the while To that mother's imagery, A mother's embodiment That uttered 'son'! The car ...

The Peepal Tree In My Memory by S B Ray on March 30.  © S B Ray, All rights reserved Stood there a mighty Peepal tree, Behind my house in the village, Saw its branches sway in breeze, With a child's awe in gaze. Behind my house stood that tree, Cool 'n thick shade welcomed all, Children blithesome played games, Young and old met till nightfall. Tall and mighty stood that tree, thick 'n vast spread canopy span, Monkeys sat on boughs 'n branches, Croaked 'n cawed birds rook-raven. Formed a bed of leaves yellow-brown, Fall autumnal stripped  leaves all, Birds yet perched leafless branches, Such did Peepal tree stand tall. Leaves budded out season next, Fresh leaves out did branches gain, Such stood tall the Peepal tree, Monkeys  sat on branches again.

Migratory Wings by S B Ray on March 25.  © S B Ray, All rights reserved As they fly high in the sky, wings spread wide, on a long stride, to destinations far and wide. What they aim? a goal of life, a mission of knowing the unknown world-wide?

The Life of a Homeless Man I know by S B Ray on March 28.  © S B Ray, All rights reserved Pavement is his humble home, Penniless but is full of life, Children playfully frolicsome, Blessed, has a loving wife. Innately rich and firm to survive, heartily laughs and seldom sicken, besides  privations of a poor life, for the angst of a penurious pain. Not the blessed fairy Alladin, does not have the magic lamp. Toils hard  hours unending, day and night without a cramp. Wealthy of resolve to make a life, heart has mighty heaves to pound, mind, with the makings to survive, Keeps him moving all day round. Lives not on hopes or any surprise, Awaits no manna from heaven, waits not a providence or prize, Slogs and sweats long till he can.

Spring-Festival of Colours by S B Ray on March 25.  © S B Ray, All rights reserved Colours all mingle as I look up the sky, mingle the joy of kids and kids no more. Kids as they all seem in  joy of life, the joy seems for every age to own. O what a life full of colours vivid! nice with colours to dance and sing! nice is the song of joy and colours, nice is dancing  in a colourful Spring.

I Can See The Pole Star by S B Ray on March 24.  © S B Ray, All rights reserved A bestowal by providence not betoken, or foreseen, nor any aura been, called a breathing consequence- the life. An ominous endowment, luck-begotten, smitten with, the fate preordained peril and the pain of walking the edge of a knife. As so often endowed with: the night of nightmares, the darkness in the day, with hopes piled on hopes- a tempest painted in subversion with the melee of strife. Sought yet not come true: some peace, solace of some kind, a strain of a flute in solitude, lilting in from afar,a music serene, in the quietude of a tranquil life. Yet,unabated  hopes all live for ever, for ever breath fills the breasts unabated, unabated eyes see the world for ever, for ever all hearts beat unabated. To unveil the charm of life well alive, lives the promise of a ceaseless strife.

পরাধীন জনপ্রিয়তার """""""""""""""""""""""""""""" সবাই যে কবি হতে চায়, স্বাধীনতা তবু নাহি চায় কবিতায়। কবি মন সদা যদি ভয়ে ভয়ে চলে, মেপে মেপে যদি সব কথা বলে- তবে যে কবিতার বড় দুর্দিন, কবি তার কবিতার  জনপ্রিয়তার পরাধীন। এমন কবি আমি হতে নাহি চাই- লিখে নিলাম আমার শেষ কবিতা তাই। """""""""""""""""""""""""""""