पाहून मैत्र माझे ,जळला हि देव स्वर्गी
सारेच भक्त त्याचे परी मित्र कोणी नाही !
त्याच्याही वाढदिवशी पार्टी कुणी न मागे
माहोल मैफिलीचा त्याच्या हि स्वर्गी नाही !
ना टोळभैरवांचा गप्पाष्टकी हि अड्डा
एका कटिंग चहाचा भुरका हि तेथ नाही !
शिवी ऐकू ये न कानी नुसतीच आरती हि
पोरीहि पटविण्याचे कडवे हि त्यात नाही !
देवा तु कमनशिबी,नशिबी तुझ्या न दोस्ती
लीन सर्व ठायी तुझ्या ,दोस्तीत हे न काही !
अरे जन्म घे इथे तु, हि पृथ्वी स्वर्ग आहे
अमृत मैत्रीचे ते स्वर्गी तुझ्याच नाही !
Once upon a time, words began to vanish from the language of children. They disappeared so quietly that at first almost no one noticed — fading away like water on stone. The words were those that children used to name the natural world around them: acorn, adder, bluebell, bramble, conker — gone! Fern, heather, kingfisher, otter, raven, willow, wren… all of them gone! The words were becoming lost: no longer vivid in children’s voices, no longer alive in their stories.
You hold in your hands a spellbook for conjuring back these lost words. To read it you will need to seek, find and speak. It deals in things that are missing and things that are hidden, in absences and in appearances. It is told in gold — the gold of the goldfinches that flit through its pages in charms — and it holds not poems but spells of many kinds that might just, by the old, strong magic of being spoken aloud, unfold dreams and songs, and summon lost words back into the mouth and the mind’s eye.
We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we learn
A brave and startling truth
And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms
When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil
When the rapacious storming of the churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze
When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse
When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Nor the Gardens of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled into delicious color
By Western sunsets
Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the Rising Sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world
When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe
We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines
When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear
When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.
I was screaming in the canyon
At the moment of my death
The echo I created
Outlasted my last breath
my voice, it made an avalanche
And buried a man I never knew
I have only one thing to do
And that's be the wave that I am
And then sink back into the ocean
स्मरणांचा मौन किनारा,
स्मरणांची ओली गाज
स्मरणांची ओली गाज,
की तुझाच हा आवाज?
हे सारे शाश्वत आहे,
की काळाचा अंदाज?
रेतीवर लिहिले ते ते,
काळाने वाहून नेले
अन् तुझे नी माझे नाते,
अद्वैत होऊनी गेले !!
तू तुझी गोष्ट सांगणं
त्यांना मान्य नाही
कारण त्यातली त्यांची
भूमिका त्यांना
आवडत नाही
तू फारच
भडक रंगवतेस
त्यांचे चेहरे
बदलतेस त्यांचे शब्द
आणि त्यांनी कधीच
न केलेल्या गुन्ह्यात
चक्क अडकवतेस त्यांना
वास्तविक पाहता
खरी गुन्हेगार तर तू
त्यांच्या जगात शिरलेली
स्वतःला सिद्ध करू पाहणारी
केवढा अक्षम्य अपराध हा
बुद्धीचा वापर
अभिव्यक्तीचा आग्रह
आणि
माणूस म्हणून
वागवलं जावं ही अपेक्षा
फारच मोठा गुन्हा
झाला हो हा
चल आता
पुरे कर तुझं
डोळ्यांवर पट्टी बांध लवकर
अज्ञानाची
अडाणीपणाची
अंधश्रद्धेचीही
आणि पाय धरून
माफी माग त्यांची
त्यांच्या उदार अंतःकरणात
थोडीशी जरी
जागा मिळवता आली
तर आणि तरच
तुझा जन्म सफल आहे बयो!
- रंगबावरी
ज़िन्दगी क़तार नहीं है
जो ब्रह्माण्ड के एक छोर से
दूसरे छोर तक मज़बूती से
पाँव जमाए खड़ी रहे,
आएगी मृत्यु बग़ैर आहट
दबे पाँव
टूट जाएगी ज़िन्दगी की क़तार
बड़ी सरलता से स्वतः ही ।
निचरा
आज सकाळी सकाळी बाथरुमचं "drain" तुंबलं होतं. त्याच्या साफसफाईकडे बर्‍याच दिवसात दुर्लक्ष झालं होतं.
"drainex" टाकलं आणि जादू व्‍हावी तशी सगळी घाण साफ धुवून निघाली. पाण्‍याचा निचरा पुन्‍हा व्‍यवस्‍थित
व्‍हायला लागला...
मनात आलं माणसाच्‍या मनासाठी नाही मिळत का असं कुठचं "drainex"?
असतं असं काही तर किती बरं झालं असतं नाही..!!
- सोनल मोडक
