Category Archives: Are We?

Ennead #2: Alcohol, Plea & Freedom (Are We Taking Care #5)



Hey, look your son drunk…he can’t walk properly…he’s searching the way to home…

Hey, uncle, your daughter drunk…she can’t walk…look the strap is out…oh…sexy…

Son, never make it a habit. What a feat you had showed. I’m ashamed to be your father.


Turn to me. Can’t you hear me turn to me now…okay…you’re a stubborn bitch…

Am on period…I can’t…I’m in pain…not these few nights…please leave me; please I beg…

What did you say…am your husband slut…you’ve to accept my wish…no vice versa in bed


I want a divorce…Ma…he’s a monster…he’s not a good person…he beat me…rapes me…

Why don’t you accept him…he’s your husband…what’ll society say…the neighbor…

I want a divorce…Papa…no, you can’t…if you have one, live on your own then…


Are We? is a series of poems which reflect my disturbance on an issue or my thought on an issue. The series also is a medium of asking others question on the issue in focus. This part of Are We Taking Care focusses on the issue of Domestic Abuse.  Will like to hear your comments (reviews).

To read the series click here.

Daily Prompt: Acceptance


A Different Love Poem: Are We Taking Care? #4




The phone has stopped after ringing third time in consecutiveness.

She look at her reflection in the mirror. Thousand questions rumbling in her mind.

What does he have? A house? No.

What does he have? A stable job? No.

What does he have?

So many “what does he have” she had been showered with and all revert went in vain…

The phone again rang as another “what does he…” of her mother ramble in her mind.

She let it rang and as it stopped for fourth (time), he turn the cell off (and)–

Open the cell and threw the sim away after damaging it with her teeth.

She looked at the mirror and found her eyes teary. I shouldn’t cry…I shouldn’t…

What Ma…what Aunt saying…it’s true…what does he have…

What does he have…

What does he had gifted her except tantrum of running out of money–

‘fore it’s the tenth of a month…

What does he have…a rented home…a loan for his education–

The education that is of no use to him now as he worked not according to–

His educational qualification…meeting some “target” receiving calls…

Another cell, she has, ring. She startles. It may be him.

She took it up and saw no it is not him.It is him. 

As she receives the call the phone show him calling as another call,

But, she never disconnected the call for it.

Are we becoming so much lover of material that nothing stands in front of it?

Ar we becoming so much inclined to comfort of life that beautiful aspect–

Like love changing itself…

Did the song of the cuckoo or the soft noon sun are just a cacophony or mere imagination?

Are we taking care of own?



Are We Taking Care? #3



Its the shelter for the homeless, 

Its the haven they are looking for…

The words of old Old King seems to be echoed–

As the old mason woke up that morning.

He look around.

For last twenty years it is home–

Which will now, from next day, not.

He walked around the room and look at the plaque,–

Sculptures he had worked on for last two decades.

A knocking sound caught his attention.

It’s the sound of hammer on the chisel, hitting in a loop.

It’s his son engraving the new declaration;

declaration of banishment.

His neighbor a poet, meanwhile, suffering from a block–

Scribbled on parch-

art we taking careth of our owneth?

art we becoming selfish yond to beest in haven not rising voice.

art we taking careth of our owneth…

Inspired by American President Donald Trump’s declaration for an end to all Muslim immigration into the United States


From Poet’s Desk:

The modern English translated to Shakespearian English with the help of

In Modern English, the lines written by the poet are:

are we taking care of our own?

Are we becoming selfish that to be in havennot rising voice…

Are we taking care of our own…

Are We Taking Care? #2



The spring sun was high in the sky.

The singing of cuckoo could be heard.

The thirty years old, once renowned, poet woke up, she was still heavy at the head.

She looked around and found silence. She drowsily light a cigarette–

And open her blog account to see the reactions to her poem.

She knew, though, there’ll be none; (and) she was right.

She put his cell phone on the bed and then walks to the bathroom.

After an hour of prolonging bath, she came out and dressed in a new attire.

Then she wrote his last poem, and, later smoke a cigarette–last one–

Before taking up the scissors and walking to the bathroom again.

She slashed his wrist, after lighting another cigarette, and dipped it in the cold water.

Her cell phone rang, it was hazy to her. Her vision blurred–slowly and steadily.

And all stop after a bit of time. The cigarette, burned out, remain on her lips.

Are there any reason to lose so easily…are we losing our way to accept the happenings–

As trivial, accepting the wordings like life goes on or storm passed away

Are we taking care of our own…

Dedicated to Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) whose story s’how pushed me to ask self–Are We Taking Care of Our Own (Self).


He had worked hard–day and night.

He had been skipping meals, ditching everything that needs his time–a little bit.

He always dreamt of to be an emblem of success, to be a good husband, the best dad.

But, at night when he return home, he found there were no chore, no sign of living–

Silence prevail there. He searched every room and called a number few times–

He, though, knew it’ll never get answered. He sat down on the sofa and cried out aloud.

Then he slept down on the sofa–he was hungry, he was tired…

But, there’s no one to look after him ’cause of his dream–

To be an emblem of success, to be a good husband, the best dad.

Next day, the same exercise follows–hard work round the clock–

(And) searching a companion and calling the number.

Are we so lost in chase, or will it be pursuit, of being success–

(That) the rhythm of life has loses its resonance…

Are we becoming so deaf and blind to make miracles happened–

Rejecting the mystical aspects of a miracle…

Are we taking care of our own…


Painting: Loneliness by Rudolf Brink

Are We Taking Care?


The books are being stacked against the stone walls for long now;

They are now feast for termites and others living–who lives by having papers as meals.

The walls are marked by dots and holes–some’re taped by papers, some’re not–

Creating a dotted collage on the mud floor.

The hands that are needed to turn the pages,

The fingers that are needed to be drawing or writing gibberish on the walls–

Are holding butts of Kalashnikov or AK-47 or pulling the ring…

Are we taking care of our own…


The words that evoke thoughts,–

(The thoughts) That’re needed to be appreciated are being condemned…

The Elder who should speak of this, spoke, but, for sentence…

The mass that is in need of the awakening, remain slept except Few…

The weekly blog goes missing,–

The blogger is (though) not missing–

She, alias he, (at that time) becoming kindle in a pyre–

Among the Fews.

Are we taking care of our own…




Painting: City in Ruins by Alan Moore (1914-2015)