Lily Swarn (India)

Lily Swarn (India)
Lily Swarn, multilingual poet, author, columnist is a gold medalist and university colour holder. A Trellis of Ecstasy ( Poetry)was called a veritable delight by The Journal of Commonwealth literature in London. The Gypsy Trail ,( novel)Lilies of the Valley (essays)are highly appreciated . History on My Plate got rave reviews. She has won over 50 international and national awards like the Reuel International Prize for Poetry 2016, Global Icon of Peace ,Sahitya Rattan, Gujarat Sahitya Akademi Award ,Master of Creative Impulse and Sarojini Naidu Award., Kairat Duissenov medal for poetic excellence. Lily’s poetry has been translated into 16 European and Asian languages and her Urdu ghazals out to music .She is a Peace and
Humanity ambassador for institutions in Ghana and Morocco And was recently awarded the title of International Ambassador of Peace by World Literary Forum for Peace and Human Rights
A perfectly formed tendril
Of pale lemony green
Reaching out to the infinite
In shoots of tender love
Beckoning into its soft downy arms
Fragrant breezes from the hills
Laden with sweet salvia
Pregnant with daffodils
Nodding at fronds of silvery ferns
Hiding beneath the gnarled oak tree
Moss smothered
Ivy cloaked
Tree trunks of ancient vintage
Glens of gregarious green
Canopying cinerarias
Candy tufts struggling to reach sunshine
Nature’s bounty overflowing
With giddy butterflies
Drunk on sweet nectar
Bumble bees flirting with every bright flower
Harmonious orchestra of heavenly symphonies
Gliding on kayaks across White foamed rivers
Proclaiming divinity in each curled up bud .
For The Mahatma
(on the day of his assassination)
It is rather tough to remain non violent in the face of brutality
Have you seen an eagle swoop down on an unsuspecting creature ?
It’s hooked beak poised to gouge out the eyes
The sharpened talons positioned to tear apart the intestines
The eagle is hungry
It follows its instincts
It’s all about survival
Humans wage heartless wars
They demand territorial rights
I wonder if it is merely survival that prods us to squabble
Or are we petty gamesters demanding our pounds of flesh ?
It seems rather out of fashion to put forward
The proverbial other cheek when you get slapped on one
Blood boils and heckles rise
A sure shot recipe to terrify the universe
Threats of surreptitious chemical , biological warfare
Unbelievably ruthless potent weapons with unpronounceable names
Will we let the Mahatma Gandhis of the world rest in peace ?
Or will we badger their spirits with abominable violence ?
Let loose the ” dogs of war ?”
Baying , howling , barking , yelping …
Hai mai mar gayi
(Alas , I am dead )
Things that last
The potent whiff of your hushed romance lasts
It Still finds its way out of the dried petals
between the pages of that thick book
In which I tucked the bruised pink rose blossom
The one that you smuggled to me under cover of the rickety desks
Crooning the strains of Summer Wine
Strawberries, cherries …
The festering sores of racist abuse
Creep up in the sneers of moronic minds
Each syllable a slur , every glance a deflowering
They dig their heels in hurting hearts
Their whiplashes last till the final breath
The promise that the crimson winter berries make to satiate
The hunger of the fiery red cardinals in the freezing snow lasts
They keep clinging on to the shivering barren branches
With their minuscule valiant hearts
The sincere blessings in the eyes of the little lady
With the hearing aid and silver ringlets last
when you carried her bulging parcels
And offered an arm to steady her tottering steps
The passionate affair that the moonbeams have
With your white lace bedroom curtains lasts
Playfully flirting with their fluttering folds
Till the peach hues of a still yawning dawn awake
Each summer the soul searching sound
Of the shepherd boy’s wailing flute lasts
In the remote valleys of the upper Rockies
While the rich and famous are gambolling on the ski slopes of Aspen
The yearning in my eyes for a single glimpse of you lasts
No ,I think I’m lying now
It’s almost dying now
Lies and deceit imagine they will last
In this era which we in India call the Kalyug
Of strife , discord , quarrel and contention
Only the mystery of creation will last
Nothing else will

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