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Poems On / About CHILDHOOD  2/28/2015 6:21:37 AM
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Our Mother's Head Scarf

When they visit us at night,
Never do they knock at our doors,
They just break them open to enter.
Dragging our fathers by their Beards,
Pulling away the headscarf of our Mothers,
They ask us to stand naked before each other,
shame sobs,
mutual relations get strewn….

What if they hide their faces?
We identify them
from the pages of some old Books,
From the childhood memory of time spent together in the playground,
From the chair lying in the office,
From the shared swing rides of childhood,
And From amongst the students of the classroom.
Snakes just creep and move in our childhood playground.

The man sitting in the chair in our office,
looks like YAMA (The lord of death) now.
The rope of our childhood swing too has burnt itself in the blaze.
Sometimes under that dark cloth covering their faces,
We see the face of that boy as well,
The boy whom we had taught
When he entered the school.

When they come,
they just drag any person,
Drag him far away from his house,
Drag him away from the family,
And later for all to see,
Nothing more than his dead body hanging from an
Apple tree,
The body dumped near some crossing,
With their names engraved on the back
Before killing,
Names engraved in the language of terror,
Written in words of fire,
Written with red hot iron rods.

When they visit us at night,
Never do they knock at our doors,
They just break them open to enter.
They come to trample
our culture,
our honour
our relations
underneath their feet ……………..
(Hindi Poem -English translation by Autar Mota)
Nida Nawaz

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My Golden Days

My golden days:
By gone are those lovely days
Who left me away many a years.
Being under more pressure now -
More and more I remember them.
With tearful eyes and heart burn -
I do miss those fairy days,
My childhood...those golden days –
Within the nature in abundance.

Singing, dancing and playing so free -
In the nature with mud and dusts.
Roaming freely in the village paths –
In the meadows under the blue sky.
Being drenched in those rainy days –
Floating paper boats in the streamlets.
Merrily, ran with the butterflies –
Along the aisles in the paddy fields.
My childhood...those golden days –
Within the nature in abundance.

Sitting idle under the mango tree
Near the lotus - pond in the summer noon.
The white ducks, floating in that lotus pond –
Kingfisher, quietly waiting for it’s catch.
I could listen to a feeble flute -
Might be played by some shepherd from remote.
My childhood...those golden days –
Within the nature in abundance.

Don’t know even – quietly when -
Those golden days are lost.
No more, I can see those lovely fairy days.
Now I’m swirling in the urban life
And in the shackles of concreted four walls –
Caught between the sky scrapers and highways -
And thus in a speedy fast life.,
I’m drowned in the modern life in the parties and nightclubs -
In this vicious fast life - we run round the clock,
Can not hear the cuckoos coos or the cocks’ morning crows.
My childhood...those golden days –
Within the nature in abundance.

Amitava (20.10.2013)
Amitava Sur

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Her presence is like a sweet childhood,
With its careless but thoughtless dare,
Like the verdant, entangled livelihood,
She avails the trailing hands of care.

How she sprinkle her innocence around,
Glad to capture, and delight to see;
Asking questions that always confound;
Teaching lessons to smile even to sorrow sea.

One who loves her, it is joyous revel,
Spreading herself lightly on the lawn,
Her grace is seen, along the level,
Freedom of grace like winds and fawn.

Let it go to the heights; she is nature,
Mercy she's leaving to the little dears,
Strength of limb, and affectionate features,
She is like an anxiety of coming years.

She give it a play, and never fear it,
Her active life has no tear detect;
She never, ever break to go her spirit,
With her elegance she curve it to direct.

Her presence is childhood a fountain welling,
She can trace her channel in the sand,
And its currents, spreading and swelling,
She can revive and perish the withered land.

Her presence is childhood a vernal season;
She can trim and train the tender shoot;
Her softness and love is the kind reason,
She is the blossom and bloom to a raw fruit.

Her tender twigs are bent and folded,
She is an art to nature, beauty lends;
Her presence is childhood that easily mold;
Manhood can break, but seldom bends.
Anish Chouhan

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The Child World

The child world is a wondrous world,
For there the flags of hate are furled,
And there the imps of wickedness
Cause neither sorrow nor distress.
And there is never strife for gold,
There petty gossip's never told,
There all is joy and wondrous mirth,
The child earth is a glorious earth.

The land of childhood is aglow
With smiles, and there pink roses grow
Upon the cheeks of boys and girls;
The golden rod is yellow curls,
And eyes of brown and eyes of blue
Are daisies and the violets, too;
And warm and true is every hand
That clings to yours in Childhood Land.

Who owns a spot on childhood's globe
Envies no king his ermine robe;
Envies no sage his manners wise,—
His world is rich with glad surprise,
The quaintest of all speech he hears,
The truest smiles, the sweetest tears
Are his possessions every day
However troubled be his way.

Who knows the joys of Childhood Land,
The pressure of a tiny hand,
The joy that's in a babe's caress,
The soft embrace of happiness,
The sweet good-nights, the shouts of glee
That greet the morning lustily,
Has riches, those who childless live
To know, would all their fortunes give.
Edgar Albert Guest

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