Beloved?

The term beloved is made,
For the poet’s pleasure,
For they wear the lover’s cap,
To pen love poems,
And then call the beloved,
A flower or a brook,
Or the wind:
But with no ‘beloved’,
Who would they call a rose,
A dream, or rather,
A melodious song.
Beloved is the real poet,
In which the verses flow,
Who loves unconditionally,
And lets the lover free,
To be amused and inspired,
By many a smooth skin muses,
And to sign his name,
After copying the petty verses.

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A lie

When I ask you,

Do you love me?

Lie to me.

Whatever be in the heart,

Affirm or negate,

But lie.

Say the opposite,

Don’t keep quite.

For when in some time,

Or in farther,

I and you fail,

We fail,

Then tell me it was a lie,

And none of it was true,

Just falsehood.

Declare the past a lie,

An untruth,

So when we try,

Again,

We love,

Or we live,

Better.

Together or apart,

Truer than before.

Afraid

There are things that I want,

Want them now,

In the next second,

Or next moment:

Things that I am afraid of,

Afraid even to see it

Approaching,

Towards me,

Things that I want badly,

That scare me to own it,

Things that are feelings,

And truth,

And things that are me,

My desires,

My dreams,

My blood and beat.

Yet I request,

That the thing be given,

A little gradually,

Avoiding my panic,

And my anxiety,

Come, but with stealthy steps,

And join the crowd around,

The crowd that is within,

And I will breath you unknown,

And I will know,

Then I will be fine;

And I will want the thing again,

And I will no more be afraid.

Devoid of us

We do not sing together anymore,

No more me and you;

Only the leaves are left,

To make music,

With their beloved breeze.

But our melody is over,

We no more sing,

I no more chirp,

You no more blow, like the wind.

Like the beautiful breeze.

I am left amidst the rain,

In the middle of the little storm,

To swim over on my own,

Devoid of you,

And devoid of us.

Music and love

Music plays stronger than,

Words said, just like that,

I don’t say it,

My heart does,

So does my fingers drumming the air,

And my feet swinging,

On the floor.

Music?

Is it not a bitter taste of love,

When especially,

You finish the chewing,

And swallow?

Your face, moves me little less,

Than the song does,

Which sings in pitch,

Of my love to you.

I don’t sing,

I listen,

Like my thoughts,

Not my fingers,

Touches every skin of your face.

Writings

When there is a longing in the heart for loving words, in spite of loving persons all around…then your soul seeks a love profound yet tenuous, a love physical yet pure…
No worries, you are near the Divine Presence in your being.
Walk on that Path in spite of people misunderstanding you and don’t get distracted by earthly sounds for the Divine Flute plays on.

Written by my teacher, Dr Sudhanshu Mohanty