As apes of the apex species we evolved
to be perched like a bird atop a tree
in the name of mankind.

‘Man’ is still ‘man’
in a different form
of the kind that has forgotten to be ‘kind.’

Money for money
Money for blood
as a false paradigm of prestige, supremacy.
Respect for each other lost
even batons of hatred cost
to be passed.

Nothing more to culminate.
Human touch has become impalpable.

If power alone can bring it back
let my poetry bleed.
Let petrichor invoke kindness.
Let my verses rain.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

THEN:

Coffee break was a silence
between their love that was whispers,
intimate, intricate, integral.

Their honeysuckle hearts a symphony
amidst the air that was an orchestra,
scintillating, stimulating, soulful.

NOW:

Silence has become a never-ending break
between their love that is a wrinkle of time,
dull, dreary, dismal.

Fractured hearts nothing but a friction in oblivion
amidst the air that is a shadow of the mundane,
sullen, sulky, sour.

Will slivers of nostalgia revive their lifeless life?

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

Ghazal second attempt:
Based on FB prompt:
My second tribute to soldiers parallel to a Triolet posted earlier.

Through history they live, soldiers don’t die
Sacrifices galore they give, soldiers don’t die.

In the mystery of their own homecoming
their heart and soul misgive, soldiers don’t die.

As in pages of tapestry that breathe history
they build their own archive, soldiers don’t die.

Engraving history as lions of battle,
their own lives they outlive, soldiers don’t die.

Misery reigns belittling one’s own family
that sanguine rains forgive; soldiers don’t die.

Brindha pays her obeisance to them
for in fortitude they relive; soldiers don’t die.

Copyrights @ Brindha Vinodh



Modern English ghazals do not strictly adhere to meter and syllables but however the refrain(radif) and the rhyme scheme preceding the refrain(qaafiyaa) need to be followed.

Ghazal-first attempt

Based on a fb prompt:

Pandorathon -Day-9

Live life, love Life:

The sky beckons a corpse in berth in eternal sleep
that speaks only the language of death in eternal sleep.

May the rhapsody of mellifluous musical melodies
enrich life before it dips the sugary breath in eternal sleep.

Appreciate, ameliorate and adorn garlands of Peace
for they make no sense those wrapped wreath in eternal sleep.

Sunshine smiles in sequin silence
Let it melt before the eyes close-the wrath-
in eternal sleep.

In life’s munificent beauty, let’s sing
let not batons of sorrow offsprings bequeath in eternal sleep.

If only Spring petals could bloom
infinite memories of life’s worth in eternal sleep.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

Based on fb prompt.

“What is the shot,” asked Raj, a hero among the masses.
The assistant director explained to him
his shot with the punch line :
“There are two types of cuts. One cuts you sharp like a sword”
It will heal in due course.
Another pierces and cuts you with a harsh word.
It leaves you with a scar. “
“Okay, let’s go for the take” Raj said.

“Lights, camera, action.”
Take-1 .
Dialogue completed.

“Cut.”

“Sir, can we go for one more take?”
Raj nodded and another take was completed.
This time to very much to the satisfaction of the director.

He was getting ready for his next shot when a journalist approached him hesitantly.

Raj called him closer, signaling through his hands.
The journalist finally went near him and said,
“Sir, your PRO said you agreed for a short interview during this shoot.”

Raj nodded and said, “Go ahead but make it short and precise.”
The journalist nodded and started his mini interview.
On his third question, the journalist asked,
“You are one of the few actors known to go for lesser takes. What do you think about it sir?”

Raj: In my initial years, I did go for a couple of takes. So many cuts. You know each cut taught me to perform better. I evolved myself as an actor.
But the first cut is the deepest.”

Copyrights @ Brindha Vinodh

Based on a fb prompt :

A poem or a prose ending with “the first cut is the deepest of all”

A prose has also been written and will be posted as a separate post.

CUTS:

Cuts leave impressions indelible.

Cuts of childhood,
falling and rising
like phases of the moon
waning and waxing
in naive wisdom.

Cuts of marriage
like a double-edged knife
blended in one bliss
“We” emerging from
melted egos.

Cuts of old age,
faded memories
blurred hues,
ignominy of abandonment
yet the innocence
of child again.

Cuts leave impressions indelible ;
some intelligible,
some as scars teaching lessons,
cuts
mould us
fold us
as
papers of final print
undergone all edits.
But like impressions,
first cuts are the deepest cuts.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

April 30, 2020
TSL prompt:

Point of view of second person.

Those writers are terrific and you are terrible;
a terrible fish
floating
on an ocean
of
golden reflections.
You
doodle
On pages
and call it poetry, eh?
You are a clown,
a metaphor of mockery..😂

“Tomorrow never comes for you”;
You
are a “thief of time”
procrastinating
until the sky falls on you.
You
are a cuckoo,
a lazy cuckoo.
The sun shines
on you
through others’
nest and
you bask shamelessly..
You are a comedy of parody😀

You
are a
slave of your judgement;
Have you
ever
worn shoes
of others
like Goldielocks
of the three bears?
Not all skies
are azure;
Gaze at those
morbid skies
before you
drench
in rains
of emotions.
What differentiates
you
from the robot
except artificial intelligence?
You are a robot..
No, the robot is
better than
you!😀

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

Napowrimo Day-29
TSL prompt: Absence of something

Gusty winds are blowing here
carrying me away to that old world
of silence;
bitten all these years by the rat race of time in its own pace,
nibbling away the child in me through what is called the sanity of this world.
I, like Kalpana of Nissim Ezekiel’s
“For Kalpana,” was thin but strong
enough to cycle (natural work-out) through roads teasing pedestrians with honks,
whiffing along fragrance of coral jasmines
that have disappeared into cemented
buildings.
Rains were great tantalizers
teasing me often to drench;
those twilight get-togethers with
friends playing over the horizon
have melted as dollops of ice cream.

The moon still glitters,
the sun rises,
stars twinkle
and the earth rotates
but no more through the window panes
of an innocent child.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

Andadhi form of Tamizh literature where the last word of penultimate sentence becomes the first word of the new sentence.
TSL prompt: April 28, 2020

Her tender hands knitting tendrils of JASMINE
JASMINE flowers fragrant with scented fervors unique
UNIQUE as the scent of a baby known only to MOTHER
MOTHER-to-be this girl pregnant with a protruding stomach
STOMACH as big as a whole pumpkin white
WHITE and pure like the moon this young GIRL
GIRL probably as young around years EIGHTEEN
EIGHTEEN the number of her colored BANGLES
BANGLES on each hand – green, pink, blue and RED
RED also the color of vermilion smeared on her FOREHEAD
FOREHEAD sweating from humidity of a hot DAY
DAY sinking and sweltering from the subdued advent of early EVENING
EVENING the time when her flowers mostly SELL
SELL as fast as Express trains lest they become STALE
STALE as her very own untold TALE
TALE awaiting wings of FREEDOM
FREEDOM from that caged CIRCLE
CIRCLE vicious and vicious circle of poverty.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

Take 2 – To my Mother:

An advance gift for Mother’s Day
April 28, 2020

Like a true mother she bled to feed me
me the child of my mother
mother of three including me
me who writes poetry because of her
her resonance of benign words
words sharp yet subtle that cajole me.

Me whose verses find avenues
avenues in turn that reflect my verses
verses, free verses versus rhymed ones
ones that speak out my heart
heartfelt hugs to her
her sacrifices humongous as the Himalayas.

Himalayas actually belittled of their height;
height of divinity her presence
presence of her an exhilarating experience.
Experience as a metaphor her life
life still teaching values and virtues
virtues speak of her life.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

TSL prompt- I am challenged to write a travel poem

April 27, 2020

Twice in the last three years
my husband, me and our children
have traveled in the flight
as patients of homesickness
carrying with us a load of memories,
suitcases jam-packed with
desi curry powders and snacks
whiffing yet the fresh fragrance
of motherland
above blue seas
along green pastures
beneath white passing clouds
of time.

From East to West
lost in the sleep of thoughts
missing
fervors of festivals
jasmines and yellow chrysanthemums
leaving behind kith and Kin
with tears masked by smiles
away by miles
into a zone of its own aura.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh