You were called Sophisticated Yes The chic clothes Were your props The perfume Your halo You carried yourself Well But then There were so many aids Stripped of them You panicked The person in you Had had Too many crutches The two feet The mind Were not enough You ran for cover Preeti Tej Singh has written two books of[Read More...]
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With empty stomachs and tattered clothes With lifeless eyes devoid of all hopes With dreams not daring to knock at your hearts Is hatred the lifeline you are really looking for? When the ‘accident of your birth’ decides your fate And even for that the fault is laid down at your gate When people look at you but do-not acknowledge[Read More...]
Your God looks Suffocated In his wooden frame Your God Gasps For air In his prison He looks crushed Beneath your Flowers, incense and offerings You are cruel To his ears With your Relentless chants Recitations and hymns Leave him alone Let him out He needs to breathe To live Preeti Tej Singh has written two books of poetry. The[Read More...]
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Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha[Read More...]
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Angela Ferrao is a Goa based cartoonist. https://www.facebook.com/Ferraodesigns
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Your breasts Attract no attention Poor woman They are All dried up and loose Black and filthy You yawn You scratch The miserable wretch Tugs at it No milk in it mother He says The men look With disdain And the women Walk past with indifference You wonder Are these breasts only Or you too dead Preeti Tej Singh has[Read More...]
The post A Poor Woman appeared first on Countercurrents.
Once upon a time, in a far away land, high up in the mountains, there were two little villages named Fickle and Staid. They were on opposite sides of a deep gorge, through which flowed an icy cold river. Over the river a tiny little bridge connected the two towns. The simple folk of both villages lived separate lives except[Read More...]
Ideas enlarge They blow out Of the illusive lens The brain is But a locked trove You are A blurred picture In the scope of my vision And my losing sight Has frozen in time You are no longer Caught Between flutter of eyelids There is only A scratched negative It’s a developmental failure It won’t Turn positive Preeti Tej[Read More...]
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Keshta, old manservant of mine (Puratan Bhritya) Rabindranath Tagore- a narrative poem Translated by ©Monish R. Chatterjee (2019) Goblinesque of appearance, he was a fool beyond measure Anything went missing, screamed the mistress, “Keshta stole our treasure.” From dawn till dusk, I swore on his father’s name- barely any heed he paid The caning exceeded his earning, yet witless was[Read More...]
