Text
https://madswirl.com/poetry/2025/05/some-seasons/ SOME SEASONS | Mad Swirl
https://madswirl.com/poetry/2025/05/some-seasons/
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Text
1993-U21- R
20/4/25
21/20
#25USNaPoWriMo #amitasinfinity25napoasa
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Poem 21 Day 20
Prompt : Writing to a Known Tune/ Song
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Box Populi
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Ah, look at all these boxfuls of paper
Ah, look at all these boxfuls of papers
All these boxes of paper
Who knows where they come from ?
Files and folders and cuttings
Who knows where they belong ?
Vigilance keepers
Keeping their vigils like eagles in eeries of offices mean
Never come clean
Wait on the evil
Indifference masking their scheming ambitious
dolour
That’s what it’s for
All these boxes of paper
Are kept for a truthful defence
Files and folders and cuttings
That might have given offence
All these boxes of paper
I know where they come from
Files and folders and cuttings
To offices they belong
Lawyers Policemen
Judges and Politicos moving where action has been
No longer seen
Look at them working
Scratching their pens filled with black ink on history’s floor
Walk out the door
All the boxes of paper
Burn on the pyre along with their tales old and hoary
Now no mystery
Files and folders and cuttings
All now history
The good is often interred with our bones
The evil that men do lives after them, the Bard intones
Files and folders and cuttings
Somewhere they all belong
So string them along
Ah, look at all these boxfuls of papers
Files and cuttings and folders
And thank God you now need not clean them
Or sort them by subjects and years !
Nobody hears
Long dead fears
All these boxes of paper
You know where they come from
Files and folders and cuttings
To offices they belong
Ah, look at all these boxfuls of paper
Ah, look at all these boxfuls of paper
We know where they come from
We know where they belong
Now ashes
Now dust
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( ASA )
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Note :
To the Tune of Eleanor Rigby or All the Lonely People by the Beatles

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1996 - U23
23/22
22/4/25
Think Not Upon My Flaws, Lord !
Imagine a convent run by Catholic Nuns in a Provincial North Indian town in the 1960s.
Imagine a serious classical music teacher in such a DC school discovering a serious talent and exceptionally sweet voice in a twelve year old in Class Seven.
Imagine the Founder’s Day cum Parents Day cum Annual Concert coming up with the ArchBishop of the Diocese as Chief Guest and the Director of School Education of the Provincial Government as the Guest of Honour
Imagine the Clockwork Precision of the time-honoured Program of the Annual Function
Item One : Welcome Song with Candles
Item Two : Welcome Dance by Nursery Toddlers dressed as Cherubs with gold wings
Item Three : A Patriotic Group Song
Item Four : The Annual School One Act Play play on an Edifying Subject in Five Scenes
Item Five : The Fishermen versus Farmers Folk Dance
Item Six : A Bharat Natyam Classical Dance Performance
Item Seven : Report by School Principal
Item Eight : Prize Distribution
Item Nine : Speech of Guest of Honour
Item Ten : Speech of Chief Guest
Item Eleven : Vote of Thanks by the School’s Head Teacher
Item Twelve : A Solo Hymn by the School’s Best Singer
Dispersal of Guests
Imagine three months of rehearsals
Imagine a huge gathering of 1000 people
Imagine the whole program conducted to perfection
Imagine the climax - the Solo Hymn Singing by the School’s Best Singer in an angelic voice so that everyone leaves feeling edified
Imagine dimmed lights, music teacher on harmonium, tabla master accompanying
Imagine a clear tender silvery voice tugging at your heart singing
“ Holy Lord, think thou not upon my flaws
But upon thy Name as a Redeemer
And redeem me, a fallible human, but thy own Child “
Imagine a thousand eyes misting
And at the second verse imagine that childish twelve year old voice breaking crashing out of control right there on the stage
Choking unable to utter a note
The harmonium and tabla playing on to give her time
A glass of water urgently brought on stage, some sips swallowed, open tears
Somehow in a cracked voice the hymn completed
Prabhuji Morey Avgun Chit Na Dharo
Dear my Lord , think not upon my flaws
Ab Ki Ber Mohey Paar Utaro
Somehow redeem me this one last time
Crowds dispersing shaking their heads
And a numb child frozen in terror rushing into her mother’s arms then sobbing uncontrollably
Dreams of a musical career forever shattered
note
Struck dumb in public that day, I never sang again
To this day, I can not sing a single
( ASA )
Note
History
The Hymn referred to in this story is a very sweet kirtan by the blind but musically gifted 16th Century Bhakti Saint and Poet of North India , Bhakt Surdas. Legend hath it that he sang this hymn spontaneously when he first met his Guru Shri Vallabhacharya. The great Guru saw the immense spiritual potential of Surdas and asked him to stop beating himself up and instead sing joyous kirtans of the lilas( playful mysteries ) of the Lord. His Guru then gave him the ‘Brahma Sambandh’ initiation of Pushti Marg and Surdas was immediately transported to the World of Krishna Lila or the Playful Mysteries of Lord Krishna especially as a baby and young child . From then on, Bhakt Surdas sang joyful kirtans of Krishna Lila all his life .
Bhakt Surdas is said to have written in excess of 125,000 kirtans! A small number of them survive to modern times and are regularly sung in havelis (temples) of Pushti Marg. His hymns are also included in the Guru Granth Sahib.
Lyrics
Lyrics in Hindi are given first and the translation in English follows.
Prabhu ji, morey avgun chitt na dharo !
Samdarsi hai naam tiharo, Chaho toh paar karo.
Ek loha pooja main raakhat, Ek ghar badhik paro,
Gunn Avgunn Paaras nahi parakhe, Kanchan karat kharo.
Ek nadiya ek naar kahaavat, mailo hi neer bharo,
Jab dou mili ik baran bhaye toh , Sursari naam paro
Ek Maya ek Brama kahavat, Sur Shyam jhagaro,
Ab ki ber mohe paar utaaro, nahi pan jaat taro.
Prabhu ji , more avgun chitt na dharo !
Holy Lord, I pray, think not upon my flaws !
You are praised for seeing everyone in an impartial light. Please, redeem me!
One piece of iron may be lying in a sacred shrine and another in the home of a butcher as his knife
‘Paras mani’ (the philosopher’s stone), does not care where the iron has been and what use it has been put to but transforms both to pure gold!
A river is full of clear water, and a drain is full of dirty water.
Yet, when they become one, they are revered as the sacred River Ganga.
Surdas ( the poet - saint ) wonders why there is a quarrel between ‘Maya’ ( the Illusory World ) and ‘Brahman’ ( The True Eternal Lord )
Please, he prays, keep me out of this quarrel, and in this birth or incarnation itself , redeem me (from the cycles of rebirth), or your promise of being a Redeemer will be broken.
Please God, ignore my flaws and grant me salvation inspite of my sins,
( for I am a fallible human being and you are the all- forgiving Redeemer . )
****
Day 22
#25USNaPoWriMo #amitasinfinity25napoasa
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Text
2023
31/30
THE EARWORM
Dah-di-Dah-di, daa, daa, daa, daa-daa
Daa, daa, daa, daa-daa
Daa-aa-aa
Dah-di-Dah-di daa daa
1961
a sepia print of ‘come september’ came
to the degree college in Moffusil Punjab
where my father was the professor
in charge of “ cultural relations “
five hundred of us watched enthralled
it was a cool satin evening
in a humid tropical summer
the title track was an earworm
like no earwarm ever was or has been
before or since
Dah-di-Dah-di, daa, daa, daa, daa-daa
Daa, daa, daa, daa-daa
Daa-aa-aa
Dah-di-Dah-di daa daa
1967- Humraaz-
Tum Agar Saath Dene ka Vaadaa Karo
If only you’ll promise to always be with me
1995- Raja
Nazrein miliin Dil Dhadka
Meri Dhadkan ne Kahaa
Love me Aajaa
Our eyes met
My heart skipped a beat
Come , Love me ..
1995- Baazi
Dole Dole Dil Dole
Bole Dil Bole ke Tu hai
Kiski Mahbuba
My heart sways
My heart asks
Whose Beloved are you ?
1961 to 2025 ( present day )
no true or mock military brass band
with pipes bagpipes and trumpets
no drum major or majordomo
with waxed moustache and twirling stick
and gold frogged coat of red green or blue
playing at a wedding for the procession to dance to
or at any other occasion of joy or sorrow or
a patriotic parade could be found not knowing
or not playing bobby darin’s ‘ come september’ tune after ‘ tequila ‘ by the champs
wedding - come september
birthday - come september
anniversary - come september
birth- come september
raising cain- come september
and the snake charmer’s pungi flute weave meander
for a naagin dance
( ASA )
Note
GROK says
## Key Points
- Research suggests the tune of "Come September" influenced Bollywood songs, which are often played at Indian weddings.
- It seems likely that adaptations like "Nazren Mili Dil Dhadka" and "Dole Dole Dil Dole" could be part of baraat music, where Bhangra is commonly performed.
- The evidence leans toward an indirect connection through Bollywood's cultural integration, but no direct link to baraat or Bhangra is confirmed.
---
### Direct Answer
The connection between "Baaraats Bhangra Come September" likely lies in the cultural overlap of Indian weddings and Bollywood music. "Baaraats" probably refers to "baraat," the wedding procession where the groom arrives with music and dance, often including Bhangra, a traditional Punjabi dance. "Come September" is a 1961 American film with a theme song adapted into Bollywood hits like "Nazren Mili Dil Dhadka" from *Raja* (1995) and "Dole Dole Dil Dole" from *Baazi* (1995). These Bollywood songs are commonly played at Indian weddings, including during baraats, suggesting an indirect connection. While there's no direct evidence that "Come September" itself is played during baraats or Bhangra, its adaptations could feature in wedding playlists, blending Western influences with Indian traditions.
Me
We know better.
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Text
2020 R
29/4/24
30/29
Anasuya
Fire has left for abroad
One breast burns like June
The other like July
Thus the poet Shiv Kumar Batalvi
Speaks through the character of Luna
In the eponymous poem
Charter of feminism in Punjabi poetry
The self- same Shiv, poet and singer
Whom star- crossed lovers in Punjab
Cannot do without singing
Your beauty has ruined me
Separation rankles like grit in the eyes of my songs
I took on a hawk as a lover, O Mother of Mine !
I soak swabs of fragrance in moonlight to place on my wounded burning eyes
But the pain simply cannot be borne.
A beautiful eighty-four-year old Punjabi woman
died in the city of Merida in the mountains of Venezuela
on the 9th of September 2020
leaving behind two sons and a daughter
born of her beloved late husband Raul Jesus Estevez Laprea
a dyed-in-the wool communist
whom she had met sixty years before
at the Patrice Lumumba Peoples Friendship University in Russia
where he studied physics and she studied literature
which subjects they later taught at the University of Los Andos
all their lives for a living.
I saw her in two photos for the first time on that day.
At twenty in a black and white photo and at eighty in a colour photo
She had the same charming disarming luminous smile
in both pictures.
In 2020, Shiv Batalvi would have been 83 years of age.
He died of alcoholism and depression in 1973 at the age of 36
Leaving behind his widow and two children
who now live in Canada.
His son is called Meherbaan : The Gracious One.
It was only after her death in a far-off land
47 years after Shiv’s death
That many ardent fans of Shiv’s poetry
heard her name for the first time :
Anasuya
Saw her picture for the first time
That beautiful smile
And even then
Her extended family in India
objected to what they called breach of her privacy
Though her own children made no issue of it .
We Indians are funny that way
When it comes to family honour
And so on
Even when we are Liberals.
Feminists in India
Were up in arms at what they called Anu’s objectification
Though she herself
Had named a particular star after Shiv
And used to greet it every evening
By that name
Till her dying day
Had Western sensibilities
And met Shiv’s family after his death
And said frankly
that she never saw Shiv as a possible husband
We Indians are funny that way
Even if we are Feminists
Just by the way ,
because Anasuya and her husband Raul,
and her father Gurbakhsh Singh Preetlari
Were staunch atheists and committed communists , my curiosity takes a different direction :
Why on earth would an atheist leftist freethinker name his daughter after a Sati
( a woman considered a saint due to proven faithfulness unto death, and beyond , towards her husband ) wife of a renowned Rishi of Vedic mythology ?
We Indians are funny that way
Even if we are Communists
Especially when we are Communists.
Your beauty has ruined me
I am determined to die young
So I might turn into a flower
Or a star.
Your beauty beggars description,
Anasuya.
( Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia )
#25USNaPoWriMo #amitasinfinity25napoasa
Note 1 :
The name Anasuya is composed of two Sanskrit words: ana and asūya, translating to the 'one who is free from jealousy or envy'.
Anasuya is an ascetic, and the wife of Sage Atri in Hinduism. In Vedic mythology, she is the daughter of Devahuti and the Prajapati Kardam’s in Hindu texts. In the Ramayana, she lives with her husband in a small hermitage on the southern border of the Chitrakuta forest. A pious woman who leads an austere life, she is described as having miraculous powers
Anasuya is the sister of the sage Kapila,[3] who also served as her teacher. She is extolled as Sati Anasuya (Ascetic Anasuya) and Mata Anasuya (Mother Anasuya), the chaste wife of Sage Atri. She becomes the mother of Dattatreya, the sage-avatar of Vishnu, Chandra, a form of Brahma, and Durvasa, the irascible sage avatar of Shiva. When Sita and Rama visit her during their exile, Anasuya is very attentive to them, giving the former an unguent that would maintain her beauty forever.
Note 2 :
I wrote a poem in Punjabi as a tribute on 9/9/2020 itself on hearing of Anasuya’s passing :
9/9/2020
ਇਕ ਸਤੀ ਇਕ ਸਿਤਾਰਾ
*******************
ਕਰ ਕੇ ਤੂੰ ਮਸ਼ਹੂਰ ਸਾਨੂੰ ਟੁਰ ਗਿਓਂ
ਥਾਹ ਨਾਂ ਲੱਗੀ ਕਦੋਂ ਤੂੰ ਖੁਰ ਗਿਓਂ
ਮੁੜ ਗਈ ਕਿਸ ਰਾਹ ਸਾਡੀ ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ
ਤੂੰ ਵੀ ਕਿਹੜੇ ਰਾਹ ਖੌਰੈ ਮੁੜ ਗਿਓਂ
ਭੋਗ ਲਿੱਤੀ ਜਿੰਨੀ ਲਿਖ ਲੈ ਆਏ ਸੀ
ਪਰ ਨਾਂ ਸਮਝੇ ਕਿਸ ਲਈ ਤੂੰ ਥੁੜ ਗਿਓਂ
ਅਣਖਿਆਲੀ ਪ੍ਰੀਤ ਲੜੀਆਂ ਗੁੰਧ ਗਈ
ਖਿਡਣ ਲੱਗਾ ਸੀ ਵੇ ਕਿਉਂ ਤੂੰ ਕੁੜ੍ਹ ਗਿਓਂ ?
ਸੋਹਣੀ ਕੱਚੇ ਘੜ੍ਹੇ ਤੇ ਤਰ ਗਈ
ਕਿਉਂ ਝੰਣਾ ਵਿੱਚ ਮਹੀਂਵਾਲ ਤੂੰ ਰੁੜ੍ਹ ਗਿਓਂ ?
ਬਿਸ਼ਨ ਸ਼ਿਵ ਬ੍ਰਹਮਾ ਦੱਤ ਦੁਰਵਾ ਚੰਦਰ
ਜਨਮ ਦੇੰਦੀ ਕੁੱਖ ਨੂੰ ਪੜ੍ਹ ਗੁੜ੍ਹ ਗਿਓਂ
ਇਕ ਸਿਤਾਰਾ ਰਾਤ ਓਝਲ ਹੋ ਗਿਆ
ਨੈਣ ਦੋਹੇਂ ਮੀਟ ਪੰਖੀ ਓੜ ਗਿਓਂ
( ਅੰਮ੍ਰਿਤਾ ਸਰਜੀਤ ਆਹਲੂਵਾਲੀਆ )
Note
Written on the death of Anasuya
Note From Wikipedia
Atri is one of the seven great Rishi or Saptarshi along with Marichi, Angiras, Pulaha, Kratu, Pulastya and Vashistha.
According to the legends of the Vedic era, sage Atri was married to Anasuya Devi. They had three sons, Dattatreya, Durvasa and Chandra.
As per divine account, he is the last among the seven saptharishis and is believed to have originated from the tongue.
The wife of Atri was Anasuya, who is considered one of the seven female pativratas. When instructed by divine voice to do penance, Atri readily agreed and did severe penance. Pleased by his devotion and prayers, the Hindu trinity, namely, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva appeared before him and offered him boons. He sought all the three to be born to him. Another version of the legend states that Anasuya, by the powers of her chastity, rescued the three gods and in return, they were born as children to her. Brahma was born to her as Chandra, Vishnu as Dattatreya and Shiva in some part as Durvasa.
The mention about Atri is found in various scriptures, with the most notable being in Rig Veda. He is also associated with various ages, the notable being in Treta Yuga during Ramayana, when he and Anasuya advised Rama and his wife Sita. The pair is also attributed to bringing river Ganga down to earth, the mention of which is found in Shiva Purana.
0 notes
Text
2020
29/4/24
30/29
Anasuya
Fire has left for abroad
One breast burns like June
The other like July
Thus the poet Shiv Kumar Batalvi
Speaks through the character of Luna
In the eponymous poem
Charter of feminism in Punjabi poetry
The self- same Shiv, poet and singer
Whom star- crossed lovers in Punjab
Cannot do without singing
Your beauty has ruined me
Separation rankles like grit in the eyes of my songs
I took on a hawk as a lover, O Mother of Mine !
I soak swabs of fragrance in moonlight to place on my wounded burning eyes
But the pain simply cannot be borne.
A beautiful eighty-four-year old Punjabi woman
died in the city of Merida in the mountains of Venezuela
on the 9th of September 2020
leaving behind two sons and a daughter
born of her beloved late husband Raul Jesus Estevez Laprea
a dyed-in-the wool communist
whom she had met sixty years before
at the Patrice Lumumba Peoples Friendship University in Russia
where he studied physics and she studied literature
which subjects they later taught at the University of Los Andos
all their lives for a living.
I saw her in two photos for the first time on that day.
At twenty in a black and white photo and at eighty in a colour photo
She had the same charming disarming luminous smile
in both pictures.
In 2020, Shiv Batalvi would have been 83 years of age.
He died of alcoholism and depression in 1973 at the age of 36
Leaving behind his widow and two children
who now live in Canada.
His son is called Meherbaan : The Gracious One.
It was only after her death in a far-off land
47 years after Shiv’s death
That many ardent fans of Shiv’s poetry
heard her name for the first time :
Anasuya
Saw her picture for the first time
That beautiful smile
And even then
Her extended family in India
objected to what they called breach of her privacy
Though her own children made no issue of it .
We Indians are funny that way
When it comes to family honour
And so on
Even when we are Liberals.
Feminists in India
Were up in arms at what they called Anu’s objectification
Though she herself
Had named a particular star after Shiv
And used to greet it every evening
By that name
Till her dying day
Had Western sensibilities
And met Shiv’s family after his death
And said frankly
that she never saw Shiv as a possible husband
We Indians are funny that way
Even if we are Feminists
Just by the way ,
because Anasuya and her husband Raul,
and her father Gurbakhsh Singh Preetlari
Were staunch atheists and committed communists , my curiosity takes a different direction :
Why on earth would an atheist leftist freethinker name his daughter after a Sati
( a woman considered a saint due to proven faithfulness unto death, and beyond , towards her husband ) wife of a renowned Rishi of Vedic mythology ?
We Indians are funny that way
Even if we are Communists
Especially when we are Communists.
Your beauty has ruined me
I am determined to die young
So I might turn into a flower
Or a star.
Your beauty beggars description,
Anasuya.
( Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia )
#25USNaPoWriMo #amitasinfinity25napoasa
Note 1 :
The name Anasuya is composed of two Sanskrit words: ana and asūya, translating to the 'one who is free from jealousy or envy'.
Anasuya is an ascetic, and the wife of Sage Atri in Hinduism. In Vedic mythology, she is the daughter of Devahuti and the Prajapati Kardam’s in Hindu texts. In the Ramayana, she lives with her husband in a small hermitage on the southern border of the Chitrakuta forest. A pious woman who leads an austere life, she is described as having miraculous powers
Anasuya is the sister of the sage Kapila,[3] who also served as her teacher. She is extolled as Sati Anasuya (Ascetic Anasuya) and Mata Anasuya (Mother Anasuya), the chaste wife of Sage Atri. She becomes the mother of Dattatreya, the sage-avatar of Vishnu, Chandra, a form of Brahma, and Durvasa, the irascible sage avatar of Shiva. When Sita and Rama visit her during their exile, Anasuya is very attentive to them, giving the former an unguent that would maintain her beauty forever.
Note 2 :
I wrote a poem in Punjabi as a tribute on 9/9/2020 itself on hearing of Anasuya’s passing :
0 notes
Text
2017- U29
29/28
#25USNaPoWriMo #amitasinfinity25napoasa
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Day Twenty-Eight on APRIL 28, 2025
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Today’s prompt :
Music features heavily in human rituals and celebrations. We play music at parties; we play it in parades, and at weddings. In her poem, OBIT [Music], Victoria Chang describes the role that music played in her mother’s funeral.
Today, we challenge you to write a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind. Happy, or at the very least, meaningful, writing!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
MUSIC AS CEREMONY
A Sikh
I am born to the words and music of Guru Arjan’s Asees in the Raga Gujari
Wed to the words and music of Guru Ram Das’s Lavaan in Raga Soohi
I die to the words and music of the Kirtan Sohila of Guru Nanak in Raga Gaudi Deepaki Raga Aasa and Raga Dhanaasri
To which are added the benedictions of Guru Ram Das and Guru Arjan in Raga Gaudi Purabi
At my final rites are sung the Saloks of Guru Tegh Bahadur
I meet my Maker to the words and music of Guru Amar Das’s Anand in the Raga Ramkali
What is not a celebration for me ?
When is there not music ?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
( When the Saaqi is a Nightingale - The Saaqi Chronicles )
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( Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia )
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( Poem 29/ Day28 ) ( 25USNaPoWriMo
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3 notes
·
View notes
Text
28/4/25
29/28
#25USNaPoWriMo #amitasinfinity25napoasa
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Twenty-Eight on APRIL 28, 2025
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Today’s prompt :
Music features heavily in human rituals and celebrations. We play music at parties; we play it in parades, and at weddings. In her poem, OBIT [Music], Victoria Chang describes the role that music played in her mother’s funeral.
Today, we challenge you to write a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind. Happy, or at the very least, meaningful, writing!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
MUSIC AS CEREMONY
A Sikh
I am born to the words and music of Guru Arjan’s Asees in the Raga Gujari
Wed to the words and music of Guru Ram Das’s Lavaan in Raga Soohi
I die to the words and music of the Kirtan Sohila of Guru Nanak in Raga Gaudi Deepaki Raga Aasa and Raga Dhanaasri
To which are added the benedictions of Guru Ram Das and Guru Arjan in Raga Gaudi Purabi
At my final rites are sung the Saloks of Guru Tegh Bahadur
I meet my Maker to the words and music of Guru Amar Das’s Anand in the Raga Ramkali
What is not a celebration for me ?
When is there not music ?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
( When the Saaqi is a Nightingale - The Saaqi Chronicles )
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
( Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia )
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
( Poem 29/ Day28 ) ( 25USNaPoWriMo
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0 notes
Text
2014
28/27
27/4/25
Dominus Illuminatio Mea
( Ekphrasis )
I have met God in the grisaille of a triptych’s wings
Seek and you will find; Ask and it shall be given to you
Pray and the panels will be closed to show Genesis 1:7
Over which he unobtrusively presides
A tiny figure sitting in the upper left corner of the firmament around an outsized grey- green Earth
Suspended in a Cosmos of impermeable darkness
On the Third Day of Creation,
before the coming into being
of the Sun and the Moon
Wearing a crown like a papal tiara
God the Father
Reading his How -To book , the Bible,
Is flatly impassively creating Flat Earth
by Divine Fiat
Above him is inscribed
a quotation from Psalm 33:9
"Ipse dīxit, et facta sunt:
ipse mandāvit, et creāta sunt"—
For he spoke and it was done;
he commanded, and it stood fast. “
Day 3 of Genesis : Vegetation exists
But not yet human or animal life
Bosch renders the plant life in plain grey tints
Deliberately blurring boundaries
Of vegetal life and mineral formations
Around the interior of the Globe is the Sea
Partly illuminated by light from stars shining through clouds
The unpopulated earth of the exterior wings
Contrasts with the vibrant inner central panel
Teeming as it is with lustful humanity
A familiar narrative or trope :
The blandness of Netherlandish altarpieces serves to highlight the glorious color within.
God said , Let there be Light,and there was Light
But Bosch knows how to temper all delight.
( ASA )
( An Ekphrastic Poem on Heironymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights , Dutch: De tuin der lusten, lit. 'The garden of lusts’ )
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2014
28/27
27/4/25
Dominus Illuminatio Mea
( Ekphrasis )
I have met God in the grisaille of a triptych’s wings
Seek and you will find; Ask and it shall be given to you
Pray and the panels will be closed to show Genesis 1:7
Over which he unobtrusively presides
A tiny figure sitting in the upper left corner of the firmament around an outsized grey- green Earth
Suspended in a Cosmos of impermeable darkness
On the Third Day of Creation,
before the coming into being
of the Sun and the Moon
Wearing a crown like a papal tiara
God the Father
Reading his How -To book , the Bible,
Is flatly impassively creating Flat Earth
by Divine Fiat
Above him is inscribed
a quotation from Psalm 33:9
"Ipse dīxit, et facta sunt:
ipse mandāvit, et creāta sunt"—
For he spoke and it was done;
he commanded, and it stood fast. “
Day 3 of Genesis : Vegetation exists
But not yet human or animal life
Bosch renders the plant life in plain grey tints
Deliberately blurring boundaries
Of vegetal life and mineral formations
Around the interior of the Globe is the Sea
Partly illuminated by light from stars shining through clouds
The unpopulated earth of the exterior wings
Contrasts with the vibrant inner central panel
Teeming as it is with lustful humanity
A familiar narrative or trope :
The blandness of Netherlandish altarpieces serves to highlight the glorious color within.
God said , Let there be Light,and there was Light
But Bosch knows how to temper all delight.
( ASA )
( An Ekphrastic Poem on Heironymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights , Dutch: De tuin der lusten, lit. 'The garden of lusts’ )
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26/4/25
Sonnet 2
Just say how many and I’ll write them out
Sonnets are two a penny dime a dozen
Shakespearean or Petrarchan thin or stout
Written by one or by a witches’ coven
I too carry some pain within my heart
But what of it ? Why ever should you care ?
We meet we greet at distance and we part
We never really have the time to spare
Will sonnets bring us closer? No, not so.
I know that categoric truth somehow
With constant slights our hearts cannier grow
What has not happened will not happen now
And yet and yet and yet I dare to hope
Desiring this man’s wealth and that man’s scope
( ASA )
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2011
26/4/25
The Turn of the Screw
To write a sonnet is no major thing
For such a facile form poet as I
Shakespearean too true to itself will ring
You will notice me trying to be wry
To write a sonnet now you ask of me
When I am tired wilting hopeless old
I know I’ll never be what I could be
Like Aurangzebe I wait for chymic gold
What is it tell me that you really want
And then let me decide what I must do
To write a sonnet ? Lo, your wish I grant !
I write it. And then the turn of the screw
Volta too early ? Late ? Go on. Find fault.
The form dictates that now I call a halt
( ASA )
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2008
26/25
25/4/25
A Gurdas Mann Concert in Bhatinda, June 1985
Tropical heat cooling suddenly after sunset
Crowds gathering in the open air grounds
I’m in the front row close to the stage and the bright lights
And the cool sawdust smells when he appears
In a yellow satin lungi and kurta with a red and black embroidered jacket
And gold threadwork adorned slip-on shoes no
turban
Dark hair and a rakish beard and huge round gold earrings
Carrying a beribbonned tambourine , his hands raised up
As if to hold back the roar of the crowd on seeing him
As the orchestra plays its initial notes
And he springs lithe as a panther on the stage
True to his training as a lecturer in physical training
and throws at us these lines in impudent melody
“ Ghaghre vi gaye Phulkaariyaan vi gayiiaan
Kannaan vich kokru te vaaliyaan bi gayiiaan
Ghund vi gaye te ghund vaaliyaan vi gayiiaan
Aa gaye vilaiyti baaney … “
“ Gone are the wide sweeping skirts , the flower- embroidered scarf - shawls
From the ears the gold studs and hoops are gone
Those veils and those veiled ones have disappeared
Western outfits have taken over … “
Pause
Guitar strum
Leap shaking the tambourine
Asking in a roar
“ Ki Bano duniya da ?
What will become of our world ? “
Exclaiming in reply
“ Sacchey Paatshah Wahguru jaaney !
The True Lord Alone knows “
Crowd roars again .
It is whole hour before we get to the heart of the matter in a matter of the heart
“ Dil da Maamla hai … “
By then I’m half - asleep, my companion knudging me awake on the red- velvet front - row sofa.
“ It’s a Matter of the Heart,
For God’s sake, do something, Darling … ! “
( ASA )
#25USNaPoWriMo #amitasinfinity
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2005
24/4/25
Qawwali
Two brothers
Nusrat and Farrukh
Their cousins
Rizwan and Muazzam
Carrying on the tradition of their fathers
Fateh Ali Khan and his brother Mujahid Mubarak Ali
Farrukh’s young son Rahat
His young voice still unbroken
Some eight sundry relatives
On the stage
At Washington State University
They are singing the words of Bulle Shah
Sufi Saint and poet of Punjab
The weight of ten centuries of unbroken musical tradition upon them
“ Mera Piya Ghar Aaya O Lal ji
My Beloved has finally come home, my Friends “
Nusrat’s ghee- soaked thyroid - pained voice
Bursting through his infallible sense of rhythm
His whole fat body trembling his head nodding his hands keeping time
He leads the group the stage shaking
With the rhythm of the accompanists clapping
Farrukh swaying to the melody of the harmonium he is playing
Adding a phrase here highlighting a note there
Both elders making room for Rajat’s sweet young treble to break through in some aalaaps
Then Nusrat taking over again
And commanding
“ Throw away the clock
The hour of union should not end
My Beloved is finally home “
And then the lyrics speak of the music of the spheres
The rhythm of unstruck , the Anhad Naad
And Nusrat’s whole body quivers like a jelly
And the veins stand on his smooth forehead extending into his balding head
And his audience and his party of qawwals sitting cross -legged on the white cotton cloth covered stage
Stare at him riveted, wondering if he is going to burst a blood vessels
Everyone is clapping madly to keep time with him
As melody bursts out from him in streams
At the cresendo crying in the several voices of one cracked throat
“ Mera Piya Ghar Aaya, O Lal ji !
Mera Piya Ghar Aaya “
( ASA )
#25USNaPoWriMo #amitasinfinity26napo
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2002- U24
24/23
#25USNaPoWriMo #amitasinfinity25napo
23/4/25
AVIAN SYMPHONY
At exactly 3.26 am
Night ends
I know
Because I checked
the clock
One night
And then again
Night after night
Or perhaps
I ought to say
Yawn upon yawn
Dawn after dawn
So early
I wondered
Could this be true ?
But it was
Quite exactly what
I just told you
Not a minute sooner
Not a minute later
A symphony begins
In Nature's amphitheatre
At 3.26 am
Precisely
Deliberately
Wisely
The rose ringed parakeet
Scratches out
It's first screechy note
And seeks a response
That's only meet
The koel 's
Liquid reply
For he has forseen
Day's breaking
From afar
And spoken to
the Morning Star
If there 's no response
Or a delay
Another scratchy screech
And the sleepy pigeon
Gutturally
Steps into the breach
With drowsy mutterings
And coos
By then
The koel is prepared
A short prelude is aired
Scritch-scratch
Kuhu kuhu
It's a match
Between the two
Volley and return
The parakeet again
Takes up its turn
Then comes unaided
Music cascaded
Those notes
Like waterfalls
Descend
Then float along
Koel's on song
The notes
To heaven ascend
The hoopoe tunes in
With short musical bursts
Upopos opoe
Hud hud, hud hud
It's 4 am
The little egrets
In the toddy palm trees
Are awake
They chip in
With a range of sounds
Like horsebrushes on ivory
Wake up, grr,wake up!
The koel's song
is now a sweet reproach
All stop
To listen
For the day's approach
Then a tiny chirp
From a tentative sparrow
Encouraged by the lack of opposition
She takes up a more secure position
And chirps again
And then a host of sparrows
Trickle in
Tinkling
Quite charmingly
Disarmingly
Singing
Like silver bells
ringing
By now the pigeons
And the doves
Are all awake
And cooing
The crows
Not to be left unnoticed
Pitch in with loud caw caws
" Look, an early worm ! "
And the mynahs answer
" Mine! Mine ! "
With their torqued crowing
Through the rotors in their throats
The mynahs persist
For a while
The crows don't resist
Songs beguile.
Then it's time
For yet another chime
The persistent pulsated whistling
Of the babblers
After their morning dance
In a dusty veil
The short opera
Of the Seven Singing Sisters
As a cloud here and there slowly glisters
And the dew begins to dry upon the lawn
It's almost time for the summer dawn
Scritch Scratch
Grr grr
Kuhu kuhu
Oo gluck oo
Caw caw
Coo coo coo
Hud Hud
Chip chip
Chee chee
Uneven harmony
O what a symphony!
5 am
The chorus is complete
Birdsong is at its peak
Soon to give way
To prayer calls
Besides dolis leaving from marriage halls
Azaans and temple bells and morning mantras
Bhajans Kirtans and Hymns and holy chants
And organs playing
And then
The honking of truck horns
The whizzing by of autos
The ploughing in of buses
The cacophony of day
In the city
Breaking through
The Reverie of Sound
The Morning asks " Are you lost ?
Or found ?"
Then tweet tweet
Inform and greet
My iPad is a -twitter
Then Ring Tring
Flash off flash on
My iPnone is a- glitter
Sigh, Sigh!
O my , my !
Wordsworth is trending
In my mind
Getting and spending
We go blind
The World is too much with us
Little we see in Nature that is ours
When sheer birdsong has such angelic powers
Before transactions
Brash and rude
So short
So sweet
That interlude
Of Nature's harmony
The Avian Symphony
At crack of dawn begun
And until sunrise spun
A soft prelude
To Day.
Nature
Accept
My Gratitude!
( Amita Sarjit Singh )
Replug from 30/6/2017
#25USNaPoWriMo #amitasinfinity25napoasa
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1999- T23
23/22
22/4/25
I CAN FOLD A PAPER BOAT
You’ve set me thinking , Maureen.
I ought to have a complex.
Meditating upon what I learnt to do that gives me satisfaction, I find that , technically speaking,
I’m a giver- upper. A quitter. A loser.
Funnily enough, I’ve never thought of myself that way.
I love myself and I’m happy.
But to your prompt today.
We all tried. I did, and Mummy and Daddy
My brother, my friends, my teachers, my colleagues, my neighbours, my seniors, my juniors.
They tried to teach me to do things.
I tried to learn. Tried my damnedest- see, I’m swearing.
This is a list of things I tried to learn and hoped I would learn with practice .
Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty years passed.
I never got beyond Step One .
Of what ? Here’s the list.
Playing ball ( can’t catch )
Running ( I waddle )
Skipping rope ( I still trip )
Playing table tennis ( wasn’t ambitious, didn’t try basketball or cricket - never got beyond first service - could never hit a returning ball or return service )
Badminton ( ditto with shuttlecocks )
Swimming ( still wear those inflated tyres and stay on the shallow side )
Golf ( don’t ask )
Knitting ( any amount of knit and purl even cables with hairpins but can’t make necks or armholes or sew together a sweater or make heels of socks or fingers of gloves )
Embroidery ( cross stitch is my limit )
Crochet, tatting ( couldn’t cross even the first step)
Sewing ( only good at threading needles )
Singing ( my voice cracked in my first concert and that was it)
Kathak dancing ( did not get beyond the first step of footwork )
Waltzing ( did four rehearsals before a waltz evening but didn’t get the hang of it )
Driving ( got a licence but gave up, I get too agitated at other drivers, can’t coordinate between hands and feet and what I see )
Cooking ( once upon a time I made a good Chicken Stroganoff and an Apple Pie from a recipe book with help from my cook and they were good but could never repeat the feat. I have a fear of fire and electricity , so how can I cook ? )
Photography ( I even developed photos in a darkroom once . Sent some photos to a competition. Was rejected. Gave up )
Urdu Script ( wrote a letter to my father in my first attempt since he knew Urdu since school, he sent it right back with corrections in red ink all over the place. That was the end of that. )
Gardening ( all my plants die )
Playing the guitar ( my fingers bled and I couldn’t get any notes right )
Playing the sitar ( ditto )
Teaching ( I think I could have cracked this one but circumstances pushed me out of it in less than two years and I could never return.
And this is God’s truth .
My home is strewn with mementoes my enthusiastic beginnings and final failures.
A ladies golf half-set
Embroidery frames, crochet hooks, knitting needles, embroidery needles, a sewing machine, knitting wool, spools of thread
A car in the garage that a driver comes every week to start to keep the battery running.
A sitar, a guitar, a crimson bathing suit with cap to match. Urdu Qayedas and notebooks. Old cameras and reels.
Many kinds and sizes of ovens and baking tins.
Lots of other things gathering dust.
I never throw anything away. Just in case.
I escaped into reading and writing especially poetry, and haiku. I slowly realised I would never set the Thames on fire with my poems that I secretly felt so proud of, that I was no earth- shaking revolutionary, that my imagination was limited and pedestrian, that nobody would pay to read my poetry and few would even read it for free. I’ve written 11000 haiku, 2000 poems in English, 400 odd Urdu Ghazals, 200 poems in Hindi , 100 in Punjabi and a couple of dozen stories. Never published a thing.
By the way, I tried Origami, too, but the only two things that I learnt to fold properly were
A - A plane or helicopter which flies a little if I throw it right.
B- A paper boat that actually floats on water. This, I’ve tried again and again for sixty years and it works every time.
I think I can safely claim that I learnt to fold paperboats well in my childhood ( Mummy taught me when I was quite little ) and I can still do it if you give me the right kind of paper.
Yes, I know how to fold paper boats.
They actually float.
And yes, this gives me a lot of satisfaction.
This could be my Epitaph.
I can fold a paper boat.
( Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia )
#25usnapoglopowrimo #amitasinfinity25napo
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