Category: Poetry

Words

On By Rupika MoitraIn Philosophy, Poetry, StoriesLeave a comment

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They whisper, They smile,

They sing silently like a soothing lulaby,

Some days, they torment like a nagging child,

I wake with them,

I sleep saying some,

Then, In dreams they come,

Like writing in the sky,

I read them above the sea,

I read them in clouds passing by,

 

I look for them in the backyard grass,

I stare at them in windows and glass,

But most of them,

I find  them in eyes;

In eyes with undeniable innocence and unspoken reserve of joy,

In eyes of animals, words beautiful beyond defines,

In eyes that shine with subtle, simmering passion,

In eyes of the pained, they shine,

In closed eyes dorwned in deep prayers,

words of gratefulness, they meant yet didn’t utter,

Words of forgiveness,

Treasures inexplicable,

Words of nature,

All incompassing, I pick from the breeze,

 

My treasure chest is open,

I open it for all to read,

My treaure multiplies with soulful submergence,

Some smiles, some grins,

I embrace the treasure with ink of soul,

I lurk around each of them, like a touch of lover’s fingertips,

They confound me,

Make me crave more.

I relive a passionate bout with them,

They play away endlessly with the soul,

Enticing me to find,

I forever, don’t seem to mind……….

 

-Rupika Moitra

I burned the bridge

On By Rupika MoitraIn Philosophy, Poetry, StoriesLeave a comment
waterfalls under brown bridge
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

 

I burned the bridge,

For it led to the known station,

It leads me to containment,

It reassures and but it doesn’t satiates,

I still wanna walk a mile astray,

 

I burned the bridge,

It keeps me quiet,

It pacifies well.

The revolution inside,

 

I burned the bridge,

It’s too comfortable,

obstructing greatness,

The walked route,

It saves toil,

Takes away satisfaction,

 

I burned the bridge,

It gives what it wants,

It gives when it wants,

and I cannot receive,

 

I burned the bridge,

It wasn’t mine,

The bridge and me,

see across the ridge,

It reaches through me,

and I could reach through it,

But, of course,

I cut no deal with this bridge,

 

I will built my own,

From shrouded pensive molds of self,

It walks with me,

in me,

 

I need no bridge,

This path I know,

I must walk alone,

For all that paved path,

doesn’t lead,

doesn’t parch,

 

“I want to be loud,

I want to walk on thorns,

I want to smell the foul,

I rather be lost,

I rather foolishly chase,

than for this bridge to lead the way”

 

 

-Rupika Moitra

 

 

Ruthless

On By Rupika MoitraIn PoetryLeave a comment
gray pathway surrounded by green tress
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

This transformation is picking every shrouds of sensitivity out of bones.

Ruthless and rude

Is it me,

There’s no moment to ask,

where’s the celebration for it,

There’s no moment for it,

Is there no right to ask,

The transformation is the price,

There’s a price to pay

There are gifts

but gifts without whistles

They are confounding to the mind,

The gifts of universe in kind,

There’s no defining moment,

There’s just the  path and the find…

Migration

On By Rupika MoitraIn PoetryLeave a comment

pexels-photo-289473.jpeg

” Humans alike bird recognize the virtue of experiences

Landscapes, smell of air, smiles,eye contact, styles of niche creation, the color of aspirations as versatile as the colour of doors- synchronised or mismatched.

Its the seeking to love but first to understand. Sure, it started somewhere with quest of power (Alexander) or SpiceTraders.  Man is of instincts. He acts his way to redemption of soul

However, this quest for migration is real, it captures and pulls the soul like the magnetic field of Earth, guiding migratory bird to risk its life to live and feel its flight. It is innate that we risk contents of comfort for learning.”

Imagine;

Migratories are curtailed,

For territorial games,

Travel and change wasn’t just luxury,

The cost of it- Mortality,

Yet, you have to break chains,

Monotone, scarcity, placid of planes,

Transformation in height of mountains.

Every lost  breath craves,

Hope, it steads towards Peace,

Mapping magnetic field,

Pectoral plates moves,

Breaks to reconnect,

Planning and processing this feat,

Includes delay, adjust to change, intuits;

Construct and destruct, constant at play,

Knowing it all,

Why mammoth this soul, frailer,

Why then?

One walk towards, change willingly?

Perhaps,

The futility of Unwillingness, we see;

Could ‘change’ be urged to stop?

If  we could;

Would we toil with cringe, quiver or shake;

Or

Would we embrace ?

Rupika Moitra

For If

On By Rupika MoitraIn Philosophy, PoetryLeave a comment

pexels-photo-797390.jpeg

Transcendence is curated in solace yet it is relational. “all within me”
“Immanence is cultivated in closeness of relationship; with the aspects of
relationship which produces unity or a
point of identity.”

“How will I reach?”

For if, there was no one to see,

Would you still dress?

For if, your scent or stench couldn’t be perceived,

Would you still clean?

For if, hands had no where to touch or reach,

Would you still outstretch ?

And Love,

For,  if you could only give it,

In it’s purest,

but can’t feel

Would you still love?

Rupika Moitra

Perched Soul

On By Rupika MoitraIn Philosophy, PoetryLeave a comment

pexels-photo-219960.jpeg

 

“What if the soul could detached and refuse to connect to a ruminating self. Then, would we stop self-loath.

Is there still too much noise deflecting intrinsic wisdom?

Is it the mere fault of focus that is stuck on deliverance and ignore soul’s guidance?”

 

This morning,

The soul left self,

It felt contained, I guess,

I professed emptiness,

Then, I saw ‘It’

Perched on neighbor’s roof,

looking up,

missing home,

Drenched in blue,

Absorbing clues

 

Far, so far;

The body with scars

It rebels,

Doesn’t own its shame and guilt,

Stays blinded to its built,

And yet, it yearns to invite,

To staithe sombre

To complete;

 

‘Soul’

Formidable and forgiving,

It returns with a smile

With a wink from divine

 

We wait together,

My soul and I,

We still play,

our endless games

None is ready,

to give up the chase, YET…..

 

 

Rupika Moitra

Ticket to Freedom

On By Rupika MoitraIn Philosophy, PoetryLeave a comment

pexels-photo-59196.jpeg

 

Confidence,

Self-Belief,

are just sounds echoed till we actively seek,

To project and believe,

A daily task to open shackles of doubt,

To unleash potential and let it sprout,

Each day, I walk towards it,

Then I take a few steps back,

To cross this channel,

To dive a little deeper

Almost there, Almost

I crave to hear

Each day I raise the question louder,

Today, can I try harder?

Now, as I come close to the ticket window,

I need to muster the last of muscle power,

To smile and walk ahead in line,

Convinced, I have mustered enough currency of courage,

That lasts me for the journey,

To announce through the ticket window,

Yes, I am ready

Finally ready to take on this ride,

Tokens of tenacity,

I find them in my stride……

 

.Rupika Moitra