Happy Independence Day!

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Back then, the brute was blunt,
Antagonism was far more proclaimed,
The villain had the balls to spit enmity,
In public, throw up stinky contempt,
Shone our target, we knew where exactly to head,
Fouled us for no cards red, had us boil in a soup of rage,
The hungry was taught sour lessons of dignity, self-respect,
Swords, cannons, then bombs of dissent,
We bought him down by the neck, sought was Independence,
But, it was retribution for all the pain back then,
Now, the enemy is far more sly,
Unseen it lingers close by,
Having applied that lotion of technology, it awaits in disguise,
To strike from behind hedges of pretense…

Debaroon’2013

(India celebrates its 66th Independence Day…)

 

 

Image credits: http://24by7news.com

Joker’s Treat!

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Life strolled naked,

Her hour yellow had arrived,

Her luck for the joker’s red smile,

Pity Taps gone dry yet another try,

Dirty rags forgotten,

Forgotten unwashed stained flesh,

Kissed that glass wall,

Rubbed on it some unfortunate stare,

Shooed her away her reality of the day,

Disposed now on tar to decay,

Filth today another hungry rainy day,

Behind that glass a doughnut someday,

The Joker’s treat, a flickering dream from the street,

Untamable ignited barked her desire…

Debaroon’2013

(On a young ill-clad girl, thriving on the streets of Ghaziabad, Uttar Pradesh, India. She visits McDonald’s everyday before it opens up for customers to try her luck at mellowing down that service boy for something that may be could cost him his job, to hand her out only one and one of that stuff on that big poster, a chocolate doughnut.)

 

Image Credit:

http://www.gnomeplanet.com

Lost in Sounds

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Ripens the dusk into a golden day,

Beaks squeak, stretch out new red gums,

Hungry has them the yawning Sun,

Squeaks sharpen shrill and shriller from within their cradle of hay,

A flutter of a pair of mature wings,

Duty shoots up, cries aloud,

Greetings to the Lord, out of the green canopy,

That hiss of the leaves then,

The clutter of the lark’s flaps into that wilderness blue,

The viper crushing through the crispy carpet beneath,

Boots on fried leaves, munch munch,

Wandered the Ranger sniffing scales astray,

Up and close with me, face to face,

Words shot out from his mouth,

Like meteors from a meteoroid,

They hit me everywhere, missed my ears though,

Strangers now to man’s gibberish, they were busy, you know,

The Viper’s soft crush sparkled into a slithery fleeting escape,

Rang like a bell, that long rub of slipping scales,

On their sleek couches, debated those baboons,

Sang the nightingale unnerved,

A stench of sweat jostled me back,

Oh! The Ranger, he was still talking, talking to me,

Listen! Thuds of the angry elephant,

His trumpets of caution,

On his way to trample and plunder,

Soars the volume, intensifies, as if reaching us that hush,

Branches being broken,

Shown the ground, bushes and weeds,

Facing each other we stood there,

Though I was away with my ears,

Frustrated, hands on holster, that Ranger,

He was yelling futile, still talking to me…

Debaroon’2013

(This piece is completely inspired by the 2013 Bengali (an East Indian language) film, ‘Shobdo’ (Sound) by Kaushik Ganguly.

The movie narrates a unique tale about a recording studio professional that has been making a living by naturally producing sounds, heard around us in our daily lives. For example, he shakes a half filled jar of grains fast and faster in front of the microphone to produce the sound of a passing toy-train. Another, example from the film itself is the scene where he creates the sound of the flapping wings of a hundred pigeons that depart the streets into the skies after a scattered mail of grains, simply by flapping together two bunches of ripened big leaves in each of hands, right in front of the microphone.

He develops a strange obsession for imitating and creating sounds around him. His passion stretches out of control to an extent where his brain slowly slithers out of the habit of decoding human speech with any kind of noise around.

He might only be able to comprehend you if you are talking to him in a sound proof room with pin drop silence. Anywhere else, he will not be able to understand human language and decipher the sound of human speech, anymore.

This is His story…

For more on the movie, Shobdo (Sound) : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shabdo

For the movie trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-OOzquVF_fc )

 

 

 

Image Credits:

http://radmanlew.blogspot.in

Sharp a Contrast!

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Save us from the wrath of the day,

In shorts with folded hands,

Bowing our heads to the Goddess, we used to say,

Our class queues ascended in that assembly,

From shorts to trousers, cardigans to blazers we grew gradually,

The Poet now ran in our veins, Tagore rang in our ears,

His verses stood against time,

A part and parcel of our morning prayers,

Our pledge for life to fulfil His dreams,

Where men would radiate parity beams,

No matter how fair ripened their cream,

They’d to work on only themselves, individually,

Each drop should contribute to an ocean someday,

An ocean of voices, thoughts and actions for equality,

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Ten years down the line,

Now a stranger to that school,

Caught up in tougher currents of life,

I was coming down from a relative’s birthday party,

Stopped to pick up fags on my way, three hours to midnight,

A vegetable seller was getting home, back from his day’s work,

His only helper, his seven year old kid walked beside,

Adolescent eyes to the shop shone, ran the kid towards me,

There was something that he wanted to buy,

“Biscuits, I need them Dad”, he screamed back,

A big smile on his face, forgotten the day’s hard work,

Two local bakery biscuits, he’d won it all it seemed,

Biting into it slowly he walked ahead, elated in leaps,

“It’s already dinner time,” cribbing, his father followed,

The birthday that I’d just attended, seven turned a six year old,

She almost wrecked havoc in that decorated venue,

Her parents had brought her a new Samsung tablet phone,

Unhappy she growled at them,

“You know what I wanted a Sony Xperia Z,

Now I can’t even think of snaps marine.

Clicking those fishes with my hands dipped in that aquarium,

How will I click underwater while I swim with my pals?”

I overheard, switched into a state of shock,

Quickly recollected my naked little analogue years,

Pinched myself back to reality to find her sitting gloomy,

Her mom was away to change the handset,

The party continued, but I ate and left,

Saved myself of the predictable drama in store ahead,

And here I was, igniting both the fag and the engine, stray dogs bark,

The vegetable seller, his kid and cart fade away in the dark,

I sigh in wonder, “how sharp can be that contrast!”

Missed Tagore, his innocent world with light for all,

I drove away with our pledge, the Poet’s dream gargling on my mind…

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Debaroon’2013

 

 

 

 

Image Credits:

http://mpbfhsschool.com/

https://www.facebook.com/childllabour2012

http://lazy-lizard-tales.blogspot.in

The Postman

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Cycling crooked on cobbled ways,

Jingling metal, tinkling bells to another May,

Buttoned in uniform, the postman rides away,

Through coughing houses, withering crude,

The wailing Mistress of Longing, “Wait, take us too”,

Through old aberrant grills,

Locked in greenhouses of mediocrity,

Combed and robed into a stranger with the happy look,

Desire’s young labour plead freedom true,

Glimpses of shadows drooping out of the balcony,

Spitting out rusty lessons, throwing up sanity,

Postures on windows, miniatures once, then magnified,

One by one, they all disappeared for their seeds to re-appear,

Only altered the tone, rang the same wails,

Familiarly helpless beamed through grills old, stares new,

His spectacles caught passing reflections all,

For messages unstamped, he could never spare moments few,

He’d kept himself busy, chose to breathe important all the while,

Probably, he’d always known he would soon run out of time,

Till this day, he has served focused blind,

Could divert him none, could distract him none,

When the witch cried, he’d never looked back,

He made it alive to the gallows of Innovation,

Now, at his ceremony of Extinction,

He stands broad-shouldered, proud and firm,

Done with flashing his dutiful spine,

Lands a wreath on the grave of the Telegram,

Kindles lamps of a billion memories, nationwide,

Bows in front of the evergreen Goddess of Change,

Then, wears his golden swim suit, holds on to his pulse,

Ready for the plunge into the quicksand of history,

Into those blue waves of time, he leaps out of sight…

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Debaroon’2013

(This post is dedicated to the dying postal service in India.  The 163 year-old telegram services permanently closed down on the night of July 14, 2013. For more, visit: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/163-year-old-telegram-service-to-close-forever-at-9pm-today/articleshow/21067075.cms)

 

 

 

Image Credits:

http://hdrcreme.com/photos/7150-Kolkata-Alley

http://www.flickr.com/photos/s_w_ellis/4161322283/

Monsoon Afresh !!!

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That gush and gurgle in the drain,

From charcoal skies down pours the rain,

Rolls the city on a day lit by lamps,

Streets washed, then a dirty revamp,

As if straight out of a swamp,

An odor of moist grass and fresh filth looms in the air,

Unchanged is that breeze slow, heavy with craving, luring wet,

Thunder growls, moments of hush whispers,

Fierce gales kissing cool, then windless lulls,

Mirth and anger of the drenched atmosphere,

To breathe back, you aren’t here,

It must be a virgin monsoon for you out there,

For mine’s grown more lush and green,

Now more pungent is the odor, banished serene,

Droplets touch, smooch and dry away,

There’s no more a celebration, or that reason,

Will this be the end to monsoon afresh?

Juicy cloud bursts can taste dry no more,

Soon the heavens shall be sending me a new sufferer,

To walk along the dark roads in the drizzle, out of your prism…

869f6443-8255-4752-95a8-06a0f40755e0HiRes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Debaroon’2013

 

 

 

Image Credits :

http://neerzphotography.blogspot.in/

http://www.hindustantimes.com

Ave Maria

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Shot her reflections divine,

Shone glass from the Church’s spine,

Amidst jeers, tears and cheers,

Past cries from an innocent rewind,

From those meadows, wails of the sheep and the swine,

Treads ahead the nervous bride,

Petals rain from all sides,

Fate has her trampling them,

No matter to save some,

How hard she did try,

Triggers and barrels guard her walk,

Lead bursts in skies above,

For a life in arms of the barter of death,

A drop of love in that ocean red,

Her surrender to the Holy Cross,

On the altar awaits her share of sin-gloss,

Her skirt’s cathedral train rubs away the ground’s pain,

She drags it across the aisle, suppressing frowns,

When against lovelorn lips of the groom,

Shy, her sight sweeps down,

Scared, she freaks out, a blemished start,

On her kismet, bull’s eye scores the poisonous dart,

Her wedding gown was already wearing a blood stain…

Debaroon’2013

 

(From the wedding party of the son of one of Colombia’s most feared and wealthy drug lords. Visualized on and inspired from Franz Schubert’s famous Opera composition, ‘Ave Maria’. For the musical piece, visit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2bosouX_d8Y

The Ave Maria (Latin) (Hail Mary) is a traditional Catholic prayer asking for the intercession of the Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus. For more, visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ave_Maria)

 

 

Image Credit :http://www.bloominglovelyweddings.com.au/wedding-church.html

On Lungs of Desire…

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Shut are eyelids of that ocean of consent,

Awaits the end of those hours black, restless to rise,

Throbs in her depths that urge to blink turquoise,

Boycotted winds blow in strong from the East and the West,

Meet secret, kiss aloud, sands whirl celebrate,

Willfully surrenders quiet that beach at rest,

Footprints of two misfits alight, spot closer to merge,

Then, from both ends of that seamless expanse they converge ,

His drums roll to thuds of her anklets, desire glows red at dance,

While snores their stubborn nemesis to a short-lived trance,

That society under the moist blanket of their city,

Passion rages unbound, in pricked junk spotted arms of that musician,

Clung to his heart feeble and tender,

Blooms the dancer’s wish to set free from behind inescapable bars of gender,

Dreams of acceptance are dreamt, but varies the pace of their fulfillment,

When ready for an unnatural change, for its dripping sour melody,

The dancer switches to medical magic, secretly,

To distort the only definite, the only truth, the human body,

When eyes in the hospital beam to a strange light,

They open up to that junkie, now rehabilitated with a smile,

Gone his rags, now dressed bright and clean,

With his newlywed wife by his side, someone a woman, naturally,

Some vision more pain,

Eyelashes droop again,

A tear stream wedges down curves of the dancer’s cheek,

Cancelled is the vagina transplantation,

Undone shall be the breast plantation,

The ball from the past was a feast for a strange temptation,

Love survived only on unapproved and wishful pumping lungs of desire,

Tides of acceptance hit the beach,

The homogenous voice of the mass in reach,

A welcome with arms wide spread, as it its reception,

The speed freak’s footprint was washed away by that ocean ,

While that of the dancer gazed lonely at the moon, longed another misfit,

Sank deeper, licked deeper salts of exclusion,

That last footprint grew into a Pit…

Debaroon’2013

 

(Inspired from the Bengali film, ‘Chitrangada’ by the late filmmaker, Rituparno Ghosh, one of the most talented directors from the country with 12 National Awards in her kitty.

Chitrangada: The Crowning Wish is a 2012 Bengali-language film written and directed by Rituparno Ghosh. The film premiered on 25 May 2012 at the New York Indian Film Festival. The movie deals with the topics of homosexuality, gender identity and the freedom to choose one’s role in a deeply heteronormative and conformist society.

For more on the movie: http://cliched-monologues.blogspot.in/2013/03/chitrangada-crowning-wish-2012.html)

 

 

Image Credits: http://rhondabuss.blogspot.com

Reader’s Love 7

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She serves till I’m full,

When overflows my pessimistic pool,

For an optimistic burger, when I’m hungry,

I find here there, in her words that soothing cool,

I’m privileged to gorge on her sumptuous servings of positivity,

When dies that immaculateness in faces around,

I take to her verses, where romances me Nature,

Drifts me away originality,

Into a world more pristine than round

Miles away from those pangs of material stature,

To dip in her solace green,

To catch glimpse of the beauty around us, preserved unseen,

You’ve to read her for from my words you cannot measure,

That contentment you’ll derive from this poet’s treasure,

Listen up mates, writers and poets,

From the right and left wings of this globe,

From the oil towns of UAE, the castles and cafes of Europe,

From the blocks of Vegas, the painted streets of Australia,

You can’t miss out on her work,

Her name’s Soumya (http://soumyav.wordpress.com)

 

Thank You Soumya (http://soumyav.wordpress.com/about/) for showering so many awards upon MyLores.com.

Comfort through your words and your relentless support through your comments and awards continue to inspire and motivate.

—————————————————————

More Awards for MyLores.com

  1. The Most Creative Blogger Award
  2. The Loyal Reader Award
  3. Best Moment Award
  4. ABC (Awesome Blog Content) Award

 awesome-blog-content-awardthe-most-creative-blogger-award2-from-deo best-moments loyal-reader-award

Feels Great! Honoured!

 

Thank You Soumya (http://en.gravatar.com/soumyav),

Thank You Friends, Readers and Fellow Bloggers

 

God Bless

Debaroon 🙂

 

 

Image from : https://soundcloud.com/soumyav

A Hundred Holes

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It took Alice a lot of luck,

To roam Wonderland till dusk,

To get past the rubble of hurdles,

Catch sight of that golden cradle,

Awaiting her in a room feared by rats and moles,

One adorned with a polished stump and olives on its mouth,

A room that one could walk into, but never come out,

A room with a hundred holes,

Barring the ceiling and the floor,

A hundred holes on its walls four,

To let in hundred rays of the Sun,

Every morning from the ceiling flashed a new handsome face,

Calling her to ride his masculine slide, make love at a swift pace,

A helpless Alice was deprived of the youthful fun,

Her privacy robbed by those hundred holes,

On that strange and primitive land of magic, eyes were always on a roll,

She couldn’t even get hold of a monstrous piece of fabric to curtain bold,

Where would she go? Where were the shops? Where were they sold?

So, she started blocking those holes with mud and clay,

A hole a night to start with, then four each day,

Soon, a wall was covered, yet she couldn’t fling out her lusty invite,

Scared of wizards, cooking up sorcery stews nearby,

So, ten holes a day, a little more labour took her to twenty,

Left was a dark and a gloomy space, now dim was the light, once in plenty,

Three rays shot into that room through the last three holes left,

Alice could feel a killing suffocation, herself out of breath,

Desire took a steeper turn that dawn,

From the ceiling, smiled Mr. Mojo, Sylvester Stallone,

She could dine with the beast for that masculine feast,

Impatient, she filled up all the holes in a lot of hurry,

To a Breathless end, only to sob her slipping moments of slavery,

Till she bloomed human in another life,

All over again seasoned into a sharper knife,

Grew young and wise into an attractive bait,

Her lust will have to wait…

Debaroon’2013

 

 

 

Image from: http://www.cepolina.com