Surreal Moon

astronomy clouds dusk hands
Photo by Kaique Rocha on


In the wilderness of my mind, I always move

I always seek, I always want, I always behold,

Mesh of thoughts, dreams, visions and goals,

All to feel the essence,

glory of the moon;

It’s ever changing, it’s ever-reflecting,

The knowledge that is my own,

The more I wonder,

The more I try to grasp, the more I loose


Gasps in wonder, the dilemmas of soul,

Moon hides and seeks like my presence,

It let’s go so easily, all stories of its essence,

Then, it moves,

Like an era of time,

Then again, time stands still,


With stillness and pace,

It confounds the soul,

Glory is for none to behold;


I smile at it,

At those glimpses of wisdom,

A smile of eternity when love feels real,

An age of serenity, when all is surreal………..




Rupika Moitra




was this ‘GOLDEN PEACOCK’,

It’s innocence was held safely in lock and key,

It danced away,

Rain or no Rain,

To erase every wrinkle of worry,

It danced till dawn turns dusk,

It danced till all that was gathered lost its musk,

Every smile added to its golden crust,

Swelled feet, heavy-winged,

It returned each night,

Never winged,

Never cried,

For  how hard it tried;

Everyday the gathered , Gazed,

The peacock danced away for Praise,

The gold poured from the Skies,

Burdened, yet it surrendered to one up high,

One day, the air felt heavy,

Assumptions flayed minds,

The peacock danced hard to bring about smiles,

Pelted with stones, this time;

The gold on you, is our own,

They say, you dance to distract,

So you can -Extract

Injured, heart-broken, the peacock hides,

Cries for days, it couldn’t bring about smiles,

It still surrendered to the golden crust,

But asks, WHY??

In answer, It hears only rain,

Can’t stop the feet at the sound of thunder,

It dances again, to wash away its burden,


Golden Peacock dances only when destined,

When valued,

The gold of its skin shines in presence of blessed,

Praised or Unseen,

Only eyes meant for it- BEAMS;

It brushes away it’s care for praise,

Exchanged  for worth, prayers,

Clarity not Haze………

Rupika Moitra

Reverence and Toil

Man toiled for a world of bricks, stones and steel and is still toiling for the latest versions of gadgets. Man thumbs up technological advances of electromagnetic waves. He fills himself up with caffeine, smoke and fermented grapes or wheat. But, he actually sold to his peers what he loaned from nature and became self- proclaimed master of riches and named it ‘money’ The circus of owning and shopping- bringing a piece of Earth in another form. Is it that we forgotten the source and conscious is crawling in ways to reach nature.

Another man pray to them. He uses with care. He revers the nature but he believes not in his own toil. His breath are not for worldly games. He wakes and sleep with rocks as treasures to his bedside. He prays for to allievate the consciousness of race. He doesn’t indulge in pleasures of barters. He is rich inside but to most he’s poor.

The scales are unbalanced – we are craving for plants in soul, in our mouths and our homes. Every expansion is an extension of Earth and yet the man made world looks like an alien civilisation.

Garden, rivers, plants, bees, birds and animals in spite of doors, clothes, brick, carpets, television, cars. Developmental advances or insanity and conversions to robot. What is really the norm?

We were meant to balance our Reverence and Toil. We still seek to know where we came from and we yearn. Before, all meaning turns meaningless seek the source. We all will return to it.


Lightning screams aloud in pride,

Calling with shudders from sapphire sky,

Loud awakening for walking dead and alive,

To drench in rain of craft of life,

To prepare for sunshine,

To embrace blessings and learning alike,

To breath through chilled night with warmth of compassion,

To wake in bloom of hearts open for companions,

To behold solace on frisky night,

To pray not with methods and measures,

But with each living breath,










-Rupika Moitra


The shadow of collosal form,

It hides in me,

Me- torn in between,

To love with all of me,


Keep this primordial being to me,

Esteemed, I feel in its presence,

In love, can I sustain the absence?

In mutuality, do I bury it under paved brick wall of laughter,

Do I stand with me, without my shadows,

This confounding creature, to them, I be,

To lose it pains like arms cut out,

To gain it, suffering if over burdened cloud,

I live through life,

With droplets of my stoic assumptions,

But, where’s the equanimity?

Who are we?

Without primordial shadow of our ego,

Who are we?

If we let ourself free,

Branch without a tree…

Would we ever be free?

-Rupika Moitra

Oh!! Dusky one

grayscale photography of woman on garden
Photo by Yogendra Singh on

Your eyes gleam with kindness and wisdom,

and yet you, paint and paint,

The exterior in colours whose shades cover the brilliance of your own,

The pores of skin scream with the act of cruel disownment,

The self sighs and there somewhere, you hide, amongst it all,

You dim the day and you dim the night of your self-worth

Perhaps, you have accepted,

Alas, you have accepted,

Perhap, they have you, convinced,

That this dusk that evelopes.

This dusk, that creates nascent pattern of setting sun,

Aren’t  beautiful,

Their glow is not riveting,

The light of eye when you smile, when you speak doesn’t reach them,

Earth- born, what can I say,

But what can I do,

When I can’t  forgive you for listening and not rejecting,

Perhaps, the sun and the earth had to reject, projections of shades,

Not everything wants to turn pale and grey,

I yearn to see the shades that scare you,

They are your most beautiful,

But you, I admire when you own your love,

And defy those grades on your creation,

Humanness is inspired;

As you  stand  tall,

It makes all rise,

When in all shades, your glory is embraced

You are of  Sun and Earth.

Seize your blessed self, with pride….

Rupika Moitra

15th Fall

person soaking at the beachPhoto by Victor Freitas on[/caption]

It was a dusky warm evening, 14 falls ago… the kind that surges bliss. Hope seeped inside and swelled inside her. She walked believing that oblivion is strangely beautiful. He held the reins. She held the space between them. Burnt and scared, he didn’t let go of the reins. Those hands with power were inwardly curling to hide the hurts. When he did, she asked him to hold hers. Apprehensive and shaky, he did..unsurety in touch..She believed more in what it meant and grace was upon them. She covered his hands with all of hers. She held his with warmth of promise and protection of her love. She promised faith that she could give and asked him to try. Many moons later, She still places her hand over and under his curled ones. It blossomed a beautiful garden. She still places those hands of her under and over his to serve warmth, protection and promise faith but they are tired. They need to hold its own stem and hug it time and again to remind of the first share of the treasure, she willingly dwindles. She wishes he could uncurl and built his arms strong to lay over and under hers. She outstretches her arms sometimes hoping for a miracle. Hope and love play with the game of fleeting chase. 

Somedays she closes them around her as though to defend herself from pain and hurt of lost hope. I am scared for she might never place them again over and under another arm.

She waits and waits. Incessantly and patiently. They might pass through that dusky evening again. She passed it quite often in her mind. She sees her glee and smiles at her hope. But they never pass that moment together again. She throws up her arms in anger. That evening, so insignificant..Her mind can’t fathom. Why else wouldn’t they visit it again? So this fall she prepares the hand. She asked the bees to buzz and birds to sing songs from the same evening. She isn’t following the discourse anymore. This path they never pass through again is turning into a monster for her. It haunts her. She refuses for the hands to go unnoticed. He comes and looks at  hands and asks about the tray it holds.

She forgoes the hope and throws the tray and joins those arms together and prays. Prays to submerge them within her. She opens into abyss right in the middle of her heart and the hands submerge within, still joined. It all psychedelic here, colors are mixed-red, blues, browns and greens. Nothing is steady in this space, it is flowing but she noticed that her hands are still together. They are still joined. They seem like they can still bless but they have changed. Never again will they go over and under another hand.

-Rupika Moitra