DIVINITEA AT INFINITEA:

The clatter of spoons and forks and tea cups

Reminds me of those days I spent by the window-

Hoping to find an idea, a thought, just a passing glimpse

Of what life will look like even two days later.

Fussing over moot arguments and the loveliness of love,

With those little sips of divinitea-

Providing me with exuberant warmth to contemplate on tea-totaling-

A necessary habit tea-loving is,

It calms those infuriated nerves

Or even soothes a lonely soul,

But mostly, it is about the idea,

The idea of that particular sip of tea,

That particular sip of tea going down my soul

Soothing completely, my insides and the wrinkles on my face from all that frowning.

Dolashree K. Mysoor

A Budding Lawyer In A Poet's Strife

Unaware of my destiny, I look toward my pen,
Unprepared for my life, I stock my dreams, when-
I know one mere spark could set them aflight,
But for now I am unable to choose,
One from another, for resources are not loose.

These realms of life I fail to comprehend,
The failure's consequences I apprehend,
Nor numbers, nor people tether me
When i delve into the pits of poesy.
Will my poetry make my relief?
Or do I wirte for mere belief?

Unanswered questions trouble my mind,
For my future, I have to find.
With not much time am I left
To establish myself, in a manner most deft,
To take up the law or the laws of life
Is something that in my mind has caused a constant strife.

Is it strange to live in such confusion?
Or am I being just plain human?
Oh! Questions for questions have created unmitigated turmoil,
I only hope not to waste my life, caught up in this coil.

Dolashree K. Mysoor

Perfect-Imperfectionists

Perfection, they say is an outcome of practise,
And i have not yet perfected the art of imperfection.
I have practised this art for nearly two decades now,
I should have perfected it in another two more,
You see, I learnt it like Mozart learned to compose,
By myself,
A self-learned art, it always takes time and painful effort.
Frustration of two decades has built up in me,
For I have never been able to make the perfect imperfection,
It always seems like a half-hearted job.

People commit perfect crimes,
Perfect mistakes, perfectionists flaunt their perfect magnum opera,
Men flaunt their perfect wives, but a perfect imperfectionist?
Oxymoronic or moronic? Language has exalted the entire race of perfect trivialities-
A wise man did say;" All art is quite useless"
But the futility of its perfection, he forgot.

Dolashre K. Mysoor

QUA POETRY

She walks this earth duty-bound, seeking man's asylum,
The wind is caressed by her hair,
While the waters are threatened by her bosom,
A beauty all-in-all, but no man to ensnare.
Her eyes speak with vigour and passion,
Yet they maintain their graceful rythm and meter,
Her face is soft, the expression engulfs you-
Am I and admirer? No-
Her rounded breasts are embedded with tales of deep sorrow and happiness,
Her quixotic touch binds you, your imagination, your words,
Let it flow, touch her by her hair,
Feel her by her bosom.

An experience of time lies in her voluptous waist-
All that consummation requires is your imagination.
Penetrate into her, deep,
Because, depth - she is inspired by,
Not rhyme nor verbal extravagance,
Just depth, depth of what you write into her.
In your act of penetration, you are exalted-
An explosion of emotions at the brink of your heart's desire,
An equal amount of pain and joy,
An equal amount of pleasure and suffering.
Whether or not you pleasure in that pain or suffer in that joy-
Is only a consequence of what you wrote into her.

Querulous youth decide against her from cowardice,
She walks this earth duty-bound, to every man seeking her asylum.

Dolashree K. Mysoor

Payaliya Jhankaar

She moved as soft as possible,

Her coloured skirt swished in the night’s air,

But the bells on her anklets gave her away,

She tried to avoid their ring-

She ran farther and farther away-

And soon, there she was, out of earshot.

The sweet smell of the night’s air held her captive,

The bliss of being by herself-

Her longing, finally she acquired-

A sense of belonging,

A sense of oneness with herself.

Moved had she, so far from societal fetters-

That she heard or saw nobody in her vicinity.

The bells embedded in her very intrinsic anklets-

Rang, and rang loud.

There she was, completely out of earshot,

And the bells on her anklets rang loud as she ran,

They complimented the rhythm of her run.

Sweet music did she provide,

The trees swayed to the swish of her skirt

While the blades of grass danced to the rhythm of her anklets.

Yet, there she was in a dismal state,

Her eyes shone in the darkness-

Revealing a burning fire, capable of consuming the earth-

Her hair unfurled, each strand exclusively.

The necessity of peaceful being burned her insides,

Her hands and feet swayed in percussionery trends-

And the trees caught every glimpse of emotion in her eyes.

Her graceful moves set the surroundings to tune,

The skies rained on her causing their droplets to sing,

Recognising their rhythm, the bells on her anklets rang accordingly.

And there she was in the midst of clatter of cutlery,

When she realised all she did was sourced-

From some wondrous music, she woke-

To find herself in the midst of those very societal fetters

She seemed to break free from to find herself,

Oh! It was just a passing moment,

One very special moment that ended almost tragically.

Dolashree K. Mysoor