Posted in Literature

Yona- The Poem

With the madness of Milton she charged her Brigade.
A rambling cat meandering on the streets of Tel Aviv.

Religion was a mere word to her,
Her stances – way before her time.
A lost father, whom she saw perish in the war at the hands of Arabs.
Her themes eluded them Jews.
Anxious alphabets ebbed out of her,
that drove Yona in the asylum bed.

Born to offend, she scribbled in ink.
Her mighty weapon,
lone weapon snatched from her.
Penning to make the readers cringe.

Lewd, lewd Yona.
Lost all.
Her memories
Her colours
Her magic
Her fears were coming,
Her anxieties turned into her corpses.
Her abuses became her victory.
Victory in the form of frowned forehead lines of Israeli’s.

Yona, dear Yona,
cajoled with whimsical worldly weeds.
Molecules of images that lay buried for eons.

Neither a man, nor a woman,
Yona bridled senses and feigned dimes.

-Falguni Panchamatia 2019

The poem is inspired by Israeli poetess Yona Wallach. A few lines have been borrowed from a translation of her poem in Hebrew named “I Have A Stage in My Head”.

Posted in Poetry/Prose

The Whore, The One-eyed Man, The Butcher- A poem

Ravaged and cut through,
inch by inch,
her flesh was devoured in a scavengerous beak.
The whore stepped out in ages,
put her first muddy feet,
on the tracks,
Hoots and whistles, encroaching closer,
each count of breath running faster,
each throb thrived after another
one thrash,
will end life brash,
her brain waiting for it all to get over.

One eyed knave they called him that,
hung by the string of duty and pride,
one murder,had all girdled,
girdled along his neck and snapped.
He pushed her off the track.

Bastard her first word,
for him who saved a death.
For him redemption, and her a tension.
As a life she had never seen,
beyond the penny stringed between her legs.
He lit a lighter on her moonlit face.
You beauty of stray dogs,
what got that grace?

I own you amidst the heavens and hell.
wive you by the rotten well,
Our witnesses be of the cricket’s
Of engines passing far,in whisperings low.

There is must of an evil eye,
the murderous butcher,
with chest full of lies.
He slaughtered pigs and cows
in the yard,
A human slit was a no new card.

The whore, the butcher, the one eyed man,
went on gory adventures,in the macabre times.


Falguni Panchamatia

Posted in Poetry/Prose

On a pallid road – A Poem

Dimmed shadows,
black part of the day,
A pallid road.

Clinks of heels, and
thumps of boots,
Sewed music at a sensuous rhythm.

A leisurely walk,
in a soft gait.
It neither held a start,
nor the end.

We exchanged a thousand decades.
You were and I were,
a painting of the romantic age.
Our glances captured in forms,
our story told in colours dark and deep.
The intoxicated glint on your face,
was it for the true feelings in?
Or was it love and lucks potion secretly poured on eyelids?
Waiting for it’s mask to fall off.

A short distance betwixt two feet.
Too close, and easy to cover.
But also a little far,
if it was,
dimmed shadows,
that black part of the day,
on a pallid road.

-Falguni Panchamatia

*Image borrowed from Flickr

Posted in Poetry/Prose

Year – A Poem

A year.
Time that goes by in the 365 days.
365 days full of a zillion emotions.
2018 bought, the best and the worst.
I fell out of love and dived in hate.
Months bore me new people, some my kind, some with the other mind.
Some soft like,clay feels to the hand.
Others, rash rough granules.
The abrasive ones.
I loosened sweet nothings from my arms,
and gripped goals to tend.
I laughed. I wept. I toiled. I left.
I left the passing throbs in the heart.The skipped beats at the isle.
I trampled my fondness under the toes of the pretty brides.
Their smiles emitting my muse.
I found a feeling new,
hope in the other.
A life in my almost death.
I painted his delicacies red.
A year alters everything.
Every emotion.
A year finally ends.

Posted in Poetry/Prose

Gates with lock- A Poem

Many of them knocked,
the gates remain locked.
Passerby’s spy on deserted grounds,
a fear to tread hovering their eyelids.

Abandoned lands with dried bungalows always own spooky stories spun about them.
Rumors of nasty presence.

Humans have rusted hearts too, like those lone lands.
Firmly sealed, affected by infectious love. Love akin to grim spirits.
Humans have spooky stories too,
carved about them.

No one goes in,
or leaves the gates.
Mystery gives them chills and cold.
Whispers fill the town, with details unsung.

Sad but true, no villager asks why?
No villagers knows, a little oil can release the rust’s clamped arms.
No dweller senses that one foot through the gates, may tidy the ground.

Posted in Poetry/Prose

Meeting-A Poem

The mesmerizing cloudy station,
On a distance we sensed an engine and it’s hoot.
Freezing winds froze the palms,
As close to the compound we stood.

The Wedding was near,
I knew you craved beer.

Your snorts and smirks steered,
and casually strolled stations.

The last eye,
put on mine.
My clumsy self in the corner.
One look that’s all it took for the journey ahead of times.

Time will move,
my sister pinched,
faster this time, she says.

The gapes and swaps,
of looks forlorn,
sent eerie wane smiles.

There is anticipation,
of scenes possible,
of the tucked suits,
of the flowy dresses and
ringleted tresses.

Yet my eyes wavered,
You moved and quivered,
I scanned the swarm of peeps.

A hand held out,
the ball fired on,
for me to match the groves.
A young lad, of an equal pace,
tranced to the footsteps in my gloom.

A moment of a blink,
the envy springs, as your deep eyes at me do roll.

My heart goes out for your one sight,
A courtship that happen, might.


Posted in Uncategorized

Drunken Dads – A Poem

Bleed stories.
Of brittle bottles,
with mahogany wines.

Buried are the ballads,
Of the half- digged mines.

My tongue itches to tell
of the life spent on a muddy footpath.
Of the discarded kins, and their drunken dads.

My will to sing in their troubled times.
Of slipped rewards,
with no chillies and lime.
Of the curly hair and withered dreams.

With strong bonds of love in puppy screams.
Of confused goals and lost purpose.
Of brothers who are always gross.

I vomit all the lissome fears.
Of trenched toll fines and pint of beers.


*Creative borrowed from Pixabay