godawful poetry fortnight
has a patron saint: William Wordsworth, in whose opinion, poetry "is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings." After reading too many such outpourings, instead of fighting them, for one fortnight every year, we join them!

-----------------------

GPF # 3

Some women are capricious
They love to play games.
Some women are ambitious
They love to drop names

Some women are garrulous
They love to tell long tales
Some women are malicious
And also hard as nails

Some women are delicious
And hide many a flaw
Some women are Judicious
And know all about the law.

Such a continuum-
From Mani ben to Madelain
But where ever you go
Men are just-
MEN !

GPF # 2

godawful poetry fortnight
has a patron saint: William Wordsworth, in whose opinion, poetry "is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings." After reading too many such outpourings, instead of fighting them, for one fortnight every year, we join them!

-------------------

GPF # 2

O your eyes! O your Eyes!
Like twin stars in the skies.
They make a storm
in my bosom arise

Lo! Behold ! they are
Peeping at me,
from a cloud of curls,
they slowly unfurl,
Pushing me towards
an early demise
Your eyes!!

One sparkles white
and the other shines blue!
Every time I behold a cross eyed star
I will think of you -
And your eyes !!

One sparkles blue
and the other shines white
As I lie awake on a lonely night
thinking of your eyes-
tell me dear heart-
Must we ever say good byes?

GPF # 1

godawful poetry fortnight
has a patron saint: William Wordsworth, in whose opinion, poetry "is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings." After reading too many such outpourings, instead of fighting them, for one fortnight every year, we join them!

------------------

GPF # 1

After perusing the classics
After researching the old masters
Meters and stuff Jurassics (1)
My poems are still disasters

To rhyme better than a vogon (2)
was my modest aspiration.
Many a fiery slogan
Was coined in this exertion.

Now I fix my hope to master
The poems and verses basic,
on a flask or a canister
Of Gargleblasters trans galactic.(3)

Notes :-
1. Jurassic- Google it or ask Spielberg.
2. Vogon- Google it. Read H2G2 again...you haven't read it yet ???
3. Trans galactic Gargleblaster - A quaff for the strong hearted.
Guaranteed to blow you to the next galaxy.

Long time!

Long time no show,
Silent the music has gone
My puppets wait in a row
the children prefer Pokemon.

Silent the music has gone
As I wait by the road
The children prefer Pokemon.
And I think of my empty abode.

As I wait by the road
my fingers itch to dance
And I think of my empty abode.
this could be my last chance

My fingers itch to dance
My puppets wait in a row.
This could be my last chance
Sigh! Long time no show.

I give up!

It has been declared by zigzackly that 19th Aug till 31st Aug shall be a Godawful Poetry Fortnight. The party ain't over yet!

GPF- Poyem # 4

I give up!

I am hurting.
From the top of my tired hair
to the tips of my exhausted toes
I am hurting.

Oh how I ache!
Standing up is an ordeal
Sitting down is a woe
Climbing the stairs is something
I wont wish on my foe.
Oh how I ache!


Every muscle aches and hurts
Even the one above the thigh and below the tush,
which groans piteously Every time
I try to stand, sit, rise, walk, climb, bend or push.

I am one big giant bruise,
victim of style abuse.
No more gym shoes
From now on only Jimmy Choos.

Orange sings the blues.

[I declare this is NOT a GPF]

Orange was sad,
for it never had no rhyme.
He wished he had a dime
for every time he wished a rhyme.

Fellowship of Red
Was really widespread
How many rhymes of blue,
he never had no clue.
Yellow was so mellow
And loved to eat jell-o.
Green was keen,
A lean mean machine.

Poor Orange only had
Borange and Dorange.
He went around muttering
Gorange, morange, Porange?

It was a fruitless quest,
And he had already guessed
That he had not been blessed
With a rhyme for Orange!

Till he met with Purple,
As lonely as can be
Orange asked him "don’t you ever
Get lonesome like me?"

Purple sighed and said,
"No Durple, Turple for me.
Is there a Zurple by any chance?"
He asked wistfully.

Over this rhyme-less state
They sat in deep contemplation
Till some one said, “Hey look!
What a fabulous Combination!”

Isn’t there really
A rhyme for Orange?
Strange!

My Favorite Suburb

It has been declared by zigzackly that 19th Aug till 31st Aug shall be a Godawful Poetry Fortnight.

******

Before Navi Mumbai on the Bombay Poona road
Sits a little suburb called Chembur.
It’s only claim to fame, apart from Chhota Rajan, was
It was also known as the Gas Chamber.

But the scenario has definitely changed of late,
And Chembur is one of the few suburbs with any greenery left
To enjoy. It has parks where every morn laughing denizens meet.
Their laughter in the morning is an excellent way to greet
a new day. The breeze wafts in the parks very gently,
The numerous clinics make sure that their smiles look dazzling dentally.

RK Studios, Geeta Bhavan, and the Central Avenue.
If you wish for a cuppa there is a CCD or Barista for you.
The temples, churches, mosques, in Chembur are galore
But the pubs staying open late seems surely the main allure.

Chembur is truly God’s own suburb as many will aver.
If you happen to visit it some day I will happily give you a tour.

******

And do I think this poem is bad ? Isn't it obvious ?

The Dawn..

It has been declared by zigzackly that 19th Aug till 31st Aug shall be a Godawful Poetry Fortnight.


GPF Poyem # 2

At the crack of dawn one bright morn
I found a bird at that early hour
with its little chest heaving and wing a torn
It looked like a trembling wilted flower

“ don’t worry little bird “tenderly I said.
“I mean you No harm” I softly assured
It smiled a little ( or so I imagined)
And wearily it’s trusting eyes were closed

Such is life, I muttered to myself,
It’s the case of survival of the fittest,
But I am not the one to take it sitting down
I will help this poor bird back to its nest.

I stooped and picked up the little body
I could feel it’s heart beat wildly
Was it an angel from my garden
In need of a little help from me?

It stayed with me from dawn to dusk
It trilled its angel songs again
I watched it fly away, with a smile,
Happy to see it free of pain

The gifts of God are showered upon us
The birds, and beasts they heart beguile
As every creation delights the soul
I mourned that only Man is vile.

*****

This poem overflows with cliches. Starting from Crack of Dawn, wilted flower to the final Only Man is vile.
Cliches, forced rhyme, and an attempt to state a universal truth make it a bad poem.

Waiting for you ! GPF # 1

It has been declared by zigzackly that 19th Aug till 31st Aug shall be a Godawful Poetry Fortnight.


*******

Here I await,
in an ecstatic state
perchance you may walk down this lane

Here I mope,
hoping against hope
That all my prayers won’t be in vain

Keeping a watch,
Eager and staunch
Until I see you, here shall I remain.

Your mock frowns
are casting me down
And Are slowly driving me insane.

A love like mine
So steadfast and divine
Is not daunted by your feigned disdain .

Ah! you come in view!
Oh! Who is that with you?
My God! That looks like my friend Dwayne!!

The scoundrel! The Cheat,
Is wearing MY jackeat!
And walking with My love and My great Dane!

The wind let a shriek!
The clouds poured bleak,
Trying to extinguish my blazing pain

Alas! I stand alone
in the eye of cyclone.
Drenched to the bones in the pelting rain.



*******


This has all the ingredients of what I consider a bad poem.
A relentless rhyme. A whole lot of bad poets give undue importance to rhyming. They also like to coin new and strange words for the sake of a rhyme. ( this does not include Ogden Nash and his ilk. )
A lament, this wrings out some sort of universal truths from seemingly ordinary objects and events.( The winds shrieking, the clouds pouring etc )
Exclamation marks. (Ah! Oh ! Alas!!)

Rain Haikus

The rain has inspired the haikus posted here.
Will keep adding to them.

**
Little paper boat
Bravely rides the swirling stream.
June is here.

**

Teachers droning in the class
on rhythms and rhymes.
Butterflies are dancing in the rain.

**

The Magical Romance of Freddy the Frog.

Hi folks ,
this is a work under construction. Any suggestions will be most welcome.

--------------

Among the reeds,
munching the weeds,
Freddy the frog sat
singing his love song

Ribbid ! Ribbid! Ribbid!

Freddy was a frog
with blue blood in his veins,
His great great uncle Ness.
had kissed a true Princess.

“When the sun meets the rain,

then under a rainbow

The magic takes place”,
Freddy was told
by his grandma Grace!

“Here I am and
there the rainbow,

but where
oh! where is
the princess mine!”
He looked skywards
for a heavenly sign.

Jogging along she came,
on the winding path ahead,
in a red track suit and
a red band round her head

Panting hard, with
a hand on her heart
she slumped against a tree.

Freddy quivered
like a young tadpole!
His indomitable heart
joyously sang,
she the one! This is she!

Ribbid ! Ribbid! Ribbid!

Freddy hopped closer,
and uttered a respectful
greeting-

Ribbid! Ribbid ! Ribbid!

She stifled a scream
then bent to look at him

The sun, the rain and rainbow,
in fact,
the whole dang universe
seemed to conspire
to assist.
So Freddy leaped
like a lightening
And smacked
one ardent kiss on her lips.

Oh ! she said !
Ooooo!! she cooed
with love light in her eyes,
and tenderly whispered
in his eager ear

“Ribbid! Ribbid! Ribbid!”

Break- a poem by Avi das

Have you ever
Held your patience to test
To put together
A broken China doll?

Join you may with loving care
Make near invisible the cracks
And erase many a tear
But never again can make it whole!

For those of us
Who seek to break
That which we have
For that which we don’t

It may pay
To try and bring
Together some smithereens
And from it to know

A mirror cracked
May be rejoined
But can never reflect
A whole!

-Avi

Limericks !

A few old Limericks which belong here.

1.

I have this problem you see-
Every one I meet with I disagree -
There are different kinds-
With different sets of minds-
I wish the world had a few mores like- ME !!

2.

I thought I would write a limerick or two
As it was a holiday-I had nothing else to do
Rhyming words is such a fun
I can think of hundred and one-
It’s the form and the meter and the rhythm that I cant quite get a grip on to.

3.

Such dear little girl was Fanny.
So- trusting –so sweet –real honey.
She met wicked Clive
Who took her for a Drive
And her mommy is now a Granny.


4.

Good ,Bad & Ugly went to town
Their sorrows they wanted to drown-
In a bottle of cheap booze
But they fought o’er a Flooze
Now Good N Bad are Dead- & Ugly has left the town

5.

Poor Einstine was sad,
His math book was all that he had
His teachers they failed him
His friends they nailed him

Because E=mc2 was just too rad !!!!


6.

Leo Da Vinci went to Florence
With a plan to impress the Lawrence-

Of Medici you know-
But had to run from the law

Thus-Poor Leo Vinci Left Florence.

Express delivery

Express Delivery

The poet sat armed

With his pod and pen

Facing the fearsome

deadlines again

The poet was a master

The poet was a tease

He knew very well

Just How to please

“Give them mush”

he was fond of saying.

“Mush is the way to get ‘em”.

He sat with his pen

waiting for the mush

to come out surging

With the familiar gush

The hunger, the craving

The passion, the yen

But none poured

Out of his seasoned pen!

He shook his pen,

and dipped his pen

In the bottle of mush

Again and again,

Oh No! The bottle,

was dry as a bone!

He was out of mush

He thought with a groan.

The days went by

The pen stayed dry,

No longer could wait

in this desperate state,

So he set out to dial

two eight eight eight

eight eight eight eight!

“Mush-R-Us?

rush a refill of mush

Premium, Commercial or refined!

Anything is fine.

This is a matter of

life and death

My mush-less muse is

Gasping for breath!

So Pronto, right now!

And don’t ask me HOW! ”

***

"Ding Dong!" He Sprang

to the door in a rush

Outside there stood

The Goddess of Mush!

A radiant vision,

A dream surreal

from the top of her head

To her stiletto heel,

Slowly the Goddess

Sashayed in the room

Her eyes held a promise

Of an exquisite doom.

She had shaken poor poet

To his foundation

As she stretched out her arms

in an ardent invitation.

She kissed him on the lips

amused to see him blush

The poet had dissolved

In a puddle of mush.

Walking in the rain.

----------------

Walking in the rain

Sharing an umbrella,

A drop on my cheek

You flick away gently

and get drenched

by huge splash

of a passing wheel

Your earth smell

Envelopes me

As I rub my cheek

on your shoulder.

Your face a little flushed,

or maybe the effect of

my rose tinted glasses.

Walking on the promenade,

feeling the rain,

We have come this way before,

You and I,

Some other monsoon,

Some other time.

---------------------------

Thanks to- walmink

http://www.flickr.com/photos/walmink/241918563/

Rendezvous [ a pantoum]

I watched him from the window,

Under the awning of the coffee shop

Across the street from my house,

Waiting for the rain to stop

Under the awning of the coffee shop

His eyes kept darting down the road

Waiting for the rain to stop

His hair all damp and tousled,

His eyes kept darting down the road

Looking at time again and again,

His hair all damp and tousled,

Face stormy as the skies overhead

Looking at time again and again,

Finally having made up his mind,

Face stormy as the skies overhead,

He left the coffee shop behind

Finally having made up his mind,

he stepped out in the pouring rain,

He left the coffee shop behind

And faded away down the lane

He stepped out in the pouring rain

Across the street from my house,

And faded away down the lane

As I watched him from my window.

-----------------------------------------

[About Pantoums read here-

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantoum]

Seduction

Soapy red hands

clean glasses for the wine

rivulets of sweat snake

Slowly down the spine

Damp tendrils plastered on

clammy forehead

Cooking in the kitchen

On a scorching summer day

Custard on the stove

Is waiting to be stirred

Cucumber slices are chilled

ready for the bread

Frosty Mango punch is

What the heart desires

Quiche in the oven

has almost caught fire

Time to get dressed,

Gosh! Is it almost six?

Pink chiffon saree

Ought to do the trick.

Or maybe that sexy

Peek-a-boo dress ?

Pearls studs or dangling

earrings will impress ?

A flick of a brush just

Before you arrive

And a walk thru the mist of

Chanel No five.

Wine is on the ice,

Candles flicker in the breeze.

Heady gardenia intoxicates,

and fairy lights in the trees

Set up by the pool

Is a table for two

Nothing to be done

Except for waiting for you.

Bad poets are people too!

Please excuse me if I ignore you for a while,
I am not being impolite,
But please indulge me, please understand,
I have a poem to write.

Poems don’t get written easily,
One has to go through an obstacle course
Of rhythm, rhyme, and simile.
And trying to fit the words in a meter by sheer brute force.

Ideas, imagery are alien to me,
One has to think so hard!
I get my inspiration from Rhymezone,
And the verses from a Hallmark card

Please excuse me for a while,
I am almost done with my pome.
If they don’t like it in Writer's Cafe,
Why, there is always ‘Poetry.com’!

For Grandma

I have now understood,

The meaning of the songs

she crooned to me.

The mumble jumble words,

the touch of her wrinkled hands

on my young cheeks.

The murmurs in the dark,

Filling me with reassurance,

I know their meanings now.

They were the memories

which she had inherited

from her mother,

along with her blood,

And she from hers.

I see her eyes in my mirror,

And her smile

Smiles back at me

Like a blessing.

A shared treasury

of memories, and shared blood

Passed on faithfully.

now my inheritance.

Who do I pass it on to?

With rocks, you never can tell.

With rocks, you never can tell.

Solid and unobtrusive,
a brooding, hulking presence,
over the horizon.

yet a cold rock may
Hide within itself,
a fire.
On eruption it consumes
All in it’s wake,
leaving behind
devastation and
burnt land.

With rocks, you never can tell.

Sometimes, an angel hides
inside a rock,
Waiting for
a sculptor's probing gaze
to release
his trapped soul.

With rocks, you never can tell.