Flower Girl And The Bargain
Her dreamt-bungalow
Is her caravan
Loaded with a tiny thousand count
Just stringing routine
On to her phonetical 'lee pooyee'
(Malli poo, Jasmine) ...
She decks up fragrant
Crowned herself the queen
With her little three princesses
Of her dream-bungalow
I bargain up to her resentment
Against the hiked price
Hers is ten rupees, mine is five
Per hundred counts two
Or three rupees only townside
Grumbling her tone shrieks
On her vain profit unfit her dream
My final compromise anyway
Five rupees...
And home-grown mangoes some
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Bungalow
Bungalow
Bungalow
By the sea
Bungalow
In the sea air
Climbing rose
Time to spare
Luxury accommodation traps the sun
So were working every hour that God made
So we can fly away
Saving it all up for you
Bungalow
Bungalow
Silver shore line
In the gorse
You can be mine
Standing prime position for the town
Working for this vision through our lives
So we can fly away
Saving it all up for you
Bungalow
Bungalow
You wait and see
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-85
Adukku Malli (Arabian Jasmine, Butt mogra
Jasminum samba var, Grand Duke Of Tuscany)
I shall wait dear Malli
Till you're in blossom
In three decks creamy
Full and fragrant awesome
Solitary on strong cane
Supporting leaves bushy
Opens your fragrant plane
For tea and perfume dashy
So shall wait dear Malli
Till you're in blossom
In three decks creamy
Full and fragrant awesome
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Jasmine Flower Seller
A boy ran
Towards a van,
Holding out his hand
Full of fragrant
Jasmine flowers
Strung on a thread.
A lady beckoned
And began to haggle
Over the price.
The boy said
Five stings
For Rupees ten.
She pushed away
His hand,
The boy
Lost his balance,
And fell.
Tears welled up
In his eyes,
As he saw the wheels,
Crush his hope
Of a square meal.
The drizzle
Had turned to a shower.
The road was covered
With crushed flowers.
The boy had perhaps
Come from a distant village,
To earn an honest wage.
We spend thousands
Over what we fancy
On discount sales
Happy we have got
A bargain.
Why do we haggle
Over pennies?
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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The Continuing Story Of Bungalow Bill
Hey, bungalow bill
What did you kill
Bungalow bill?
He went out tiger hunting with his elephant and gun
In case of accidents he always took his mom
He's the all american bullet-headed saxon mother's son.
All the children sing
Hey bungalow bill
What did you kill
Bungalow bill?
Deep in the jungle where the mighty tiger lies
Bill and his elephants were taken by surprise
So captain marvel zapped in right between the eyes
All the children sing
Hey, bungalow bill
What did you kill
Bungalow bill?
The children asked him if to kill was not a sin
Not when he looked so fierce, his mother butted in
If looks could kill it would have been us instead of him
All the children sing
Hey, bungalow bill
What did you kill
Bungalow bill?
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nasty Bath Room
The bustand
Bath room
Was not for
Clean...
Urine sumeel
Cut the nose...
Some budy pass
Urine...
No for water
But
Colected money
For indian rupees
Onr for urine pass...
Rupees two for
Motion pass...
I was give
One rupee
I went the
Bustand bath room...
Not passed
The urine...
Urine was my self
Very urgent...
But i did not pass urine;
I was pay the one rupee
For indian money
Nasty bath room...
You also go and see
The bustand that bath room
Very care full...
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Vote bank policy
Are you below poverty line
Take 30 kilos rice / wheat
Take five hundred rupees
Take Indra awas house
Take Khadi cloth
We are for you
Give us your valuable vote.
And what more?
We do not want to make you skilled
And what is the value of that
And we are not here
To skilled you in some trade.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Believe it or not in Pakistan
when a woman marries a man
the woman pays a fee
of a million rupees
so I'll be moving there soon as I can
quote by by Otido Omukuba
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Coffee and the poor economies of the world.
Respect the sweat of human,
Irrespective of color, creed and religion,
One third of tap water is used to brew the coffee,
Procured two to five dollars per kilo in whole sale,
Starbucks sell two pound a cup in the stalls in UK,
Have spacious restaurants in our regions
converting UK pounds to our pitiful denomination,
Americana, Cappuccino, Mocha and Espresso,
Fancy name attached with degree of roasting,
Fermentation, with milk, without milk and bubbles,
Come to our countries, freshly roasted filter coffee,
Available on the road sides for five rupees a cup,
Cup size of less than 50 ml, just to moisten the throat,
Even the Cups of developed nations, fivefold our size,
Still it is only 25 rupees, equivalent to fifty cents,
We are the poor people; give us the fair price,
Coffee is the third liquid, after petroleum, on the market,
Out of one kilo coffee powder,100 cups can be brewed,
R&D, Oil rigs, Oil platforms, expensive engineers and workmen,
Billions of dollar investment, still one liter petrol costs 140 pence,
What have you invested in our poor countries,
To drink the sweat of our plantation coolies so cheap?
How are we obligated to sell our produce,
So cheap for you to increase the value and sell?
WE are fools and our politicians are your tools,
To puncture our hearts to do the batter trade.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Cut & Paste
you surf tonight
you see a bungalow beside a lake
abandoned
you do not like what is happening there
the birds are mute
and the ants cannot climb the
star apple tree
so to change at least some things
you cut
the bungalow and place it beside
a rail way where a train moves
to another new destination
you want motion and
a song
you cut some notes from a music website
and put them
inside the throat of the mute bird
and so it begins
to sing
for all the lonely ants in there
and they too, begin to dance and build
their little kingdom
the bungalow appears like a some pieces
of assembled wood
dead
you paste some smoke from a busy chimney
you put some live fishes on the lake
and you look at what you have done
you smile
you are putting life to everything
and finally
you copy a picture of yourself, you cut
and then
paste it there
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Resonant Dream
The final dream
So resonant and pure
The final dream
Will never be at its end
Its long journey almost o'er
The final dream
Has just begun
To rattle the fate at hand
The final dream
Is as pure as gold
It is perfect and will stand
The final dream
Will never come to a close
Yet it has a happy hand
The final dream
Is a grand dream
That turns the time of sand
The final dream
Is such a dream
That it is now near its end
poem by Alex Fischer
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Their style is shoed...
Their style is shoed
Counting genes
To separate males and females
Simply to devise their fancy
At the cost of my feet..
Modern girls
Easily fascinated illusorily
And when I was shoed
Into that illusory style
Priced four thousand rupees
A middle-class conservative
Was booted with a costly kick
Torn apart was my heart...
My tears or your lure at the modernity..?
poem by Indira Renganathan
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My First Flight
My First Flight
The Silkair-flight took off
at Chennai Airport,
where we paid sixty six rupees for two idlies
which cost six rupees elsewhere.
The wide national highways
seemed narrow lanes.
When the flight seemed moving
in snail's pace over the Bay of Bengal,
I told my wife, 'we'd be too late to Singapore'.
Our neighbour asked me if it was our maiden flight
and told the air-hostess to guide us reach
the flight to Melbourne at Singapore Airport
where in dazzling lights, escalators and Skytrains,
people would be missing out during transit.
I was very precautious to write my 'Will'
and handed it over to my daughter,
for dividing my earnings incase anything untoward happened
as there is danger from the terror, lightning and thunder
and also from the pilot's mishandling of situations.
Round patches of cumulous clouds were seen
over the surface of sea and land.
The flight was above thirty five thousand feet
flying in the speed of more than 900 k.ms/hour.
The journey of sixteen hours fled off without boring
as the avuncular hostesses supplied the food-packets,
fruits, drinks, breads, .. to keep us in good humour.
It was a culture shock to me at Singapore
where people of all the Asian nations and others
boarded the flight to Melbourne.
For myself it was a travel from the austral Asian city
to the austral Australian city but in a route different
from the one traversed by the ancient Tamils
from the lost Lemurian continent to Australian coasts.
---
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Seven day-deams
When I was a child, I had a dream
A dream to be like some one
I do not remember, who or why it was
When I was a boy, I had a dream
A dream to be a grown up
Amongst grown ups, as I envisioned
When I was a youth, I had a dream
A dream to make my mother proudly
Cos', she was dreaming to be proud of me
When I was a man, I had a dream
A dream to reach a plateau, one day
Amongst my colleagues already up there
Day I became a father, I had a dream
A dream to be a proud father
That being my bounden and divine duty
I had no choice, but, strove day and night
Lokzi, Podzi and Chutzi, most precious trio
Thank you, for making me proud, at last
Can never be better, I am sure
For, I shall not dream any more, for you
Being proud, nonetheless, I have a dream
A dream to say-so the world aloud
Best way to be proud, if you like
Is to dream, dream and dream
As a matured, I have a final dream
A dream to stop dreaming any more
Day I tame my craving desires
I'll be there, then, adieu to all of you all!
Jayatissa K.Liyanage
poem by Jayatissa Liyanage
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The dream boy
The dream boy shall be nice,
the dream boy shall be sweet,
the dream boy shall be cute,
the dream boy must be funny.
Of course he must be tough,
of course he must be cute,
of course he must be smart,
and most definitly handsome.
The dream boy should pass me notes,
the dream boy should be clean,
the dream boy should be cool.
The dream boy can't be mean.
The dream boy can't be conceited.
The dream boy cannot lie.
The dream boy shall not gossip.
The dream boy shall not brag.
The dream boy shall not stalk.
The dream boy will be made.
But does such a dream boy exist?
poem by Jasmine Aira
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A Wreath on the Tiles Factory
Lips of a chimney
always puff
gray smoke out.
Lorries, loaded with tiles,
always rush out.
Rupees always heap up
in a wooden drawer.
Red tiled roofs
always give them refuge.
Those ‘always' remains
in the fossils now.
Weeds lock the compound.
Rust hugs the bolts.
Experience dies in arms.
Coolies teach their children
how to hush the hunger.
Concrete roofs
proudly put wreaths
on their predecessors.
Now a coolie's lips puff
curls of worries out
before the closed gate.
FABIYAS M V
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Peace to Turmoil
When I omitted a line to read
I felt I lost the cost to that extent in
A tamil weekly that I then bought
With four annas of my privy purse.
I now buy it for seven rupees
To see across and throw it.
Is it due to the purging of my purse
Or mind running ahead of events?
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Satisfaction
My two grandchildren
both girls
always on my nerves
with their smart little pranks
asked me to accompany
to a fair nearby
I promised but as a standby.
Their mother gave a call
all of us zoomed to a big mall
saw a set of Barbie dolls
as lively as present day gals
trance-fixed
girls did not budge an inch
till their wish was not fulfilled.
Girls were happy
with great expectations they laughed & giggled
became chirpy and sizzled
their mother too
pride writ large on her face
as Barbies had cost
only rupees two thousand and fifty-two.
Back home Girls’ imagination ran riot
thinking of their buddies
walking, talking & singing Barbies
they wanted to play
but to their dismay
Barbies were showcased
for display.
Out of their reach
theirs, yet not theirs
saw their hopes sink
remembered ST Colridge*
“ water water every where, not a dropp to drink”
they could not express
their anger, anguish and distress.
Sensing their shock
least to say
took them to fair same day
they cuckooed with glee
had lot of rides for free
at their back & call
procured various small cute cottage dolls
Just for rupees fifty-three.
Sparkling eyes
smile on their faces
bringing home
the dumb & mute bounty of their own
with those they could play, walk, sing, talk and relate
and to their friends these could be shown and partake
enjoying their own world of make believe when they can
better than
watching barbies themselves like a dumb and mute
merely listening only two words, “ how nice? how cute”
physical holding of dolls made all the difference
they became alive, agile, innovative and I must say
joy on their faces
made my day.
(This poem is dedicated to all grils below 6 years including my grandchildren Yona & Sia./19-06-2011/Samuel Taylor Coleridge*)
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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Everybody dream I dream too..
Everybody dream
Children dream
Adult dream
I dream too0
I dream about d frnds with whom i grown up,
I dreamabout to always be young,
Everybody dream
I dream too,
I dream of d plac ewhich i have seen 1 day
I dream of houseat d peak of d rocks, .
Everybody dream
I dream too
I dream about d person whom I admirethe most.
I dream about the place where I grown up.
I dream of being 'Happy Always'
as m always
I dream to fly high in thesky,
I dream to achieve all the success
I know that evrybodys dream not be fullfilled always
but Kw dat I'll fullfillmy all dreams
cuz DREAMS are the key of success
letfullfill all our dreamsss
Come let kw U'r self
poem by Varsha Santosh Vyas
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-89
Nithya Malli(Peru Malli
River Jasmine, Brazilian Jasmine,
Jasminum fluminense)
Is that you're kissed
By celestial breeze
All nights till end
Richly you flit fragrance
And so called NithyaMalli?
Me a captive captured
Await your florescence
To turn from creamy bud
To pure white fluorescence
Anxiety-borne inquisition..
And trifoliate, big, broad
Leaflets in humble obeisance
While in supporting mind
You bloom in heavenly alliance
Lub lub-dub, dub speedy my heart
poem by Indira Renganathan
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How delightful to give in to an impulse! ! ! ! ! !
Driving past
A marketplace
Spot a balloon seller.
On an impulse,
I parked the car,
A little excited,
Hurriedly alighted.
How much for all?
I asked, as I watched
The shapes he had
Painstakingly given;
Apple for green,
Heart for a red,
Round for yellow.
Some even had freckles.
Mam, twenty rupees
For all.
He smiled,
Some one’s birthday?
Yes, mine,
I am reborn everyday…
People stared,
As I tightly held the string
But who cared…
Jubilant
I climbed the stairs.
Glad to give in to
Impulse for a change
And make the colourful purchase.
Even today
It makes me smile.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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