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ScoopLense is aiming to add aesthetic sense to an otherwise information website that is full of strict analysis and ideas. Here, the space is unlimited to those who want to make their presence felt all across world wide web by consistently engaging their brains for something called “master piece”. Entries in MS Word format can be submitted to SCOOPLENSESAYSatGMAIL.COM. Entries will be categorised later.

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February 14 is revered as the Lovers’ Day. ScoopLense is glad to share a note on a man’s love for his valentine.

“She” – My Nonpareil Valentine!

An angel at twilight,
A reflection of my gleaming soul,
Wondrous feminine creation;

Curtains dance around you,
Doors hug tight, often splashing,
But in one dark corner of a forgotten room
I am stationed, my only partner
A relationship of me, myself, my soul,
A pale, rather unpleasant tale,
Of a bruised and humiliated man
With a ragged beard.

How do I gather my poise,
With only a pen to tale of
That magical moment my soul forsook me
As my eyes glanced upon you,
Charmed by your face
Ever again to rest serenely?

All the hope in me was gone.

That day you peeked through curtain like veil
Poetic fragrance of lilacs in your hair,
And entered my painful existence, will be
Etched upon my soulful heart.

Those serene days of togetherness,
My infatuation, caught in your charisma;
I had not a full taste, nor did I caress
Your aching heart, after that as you know, dear
In time my heart bled, and I cried
For you; if I hurt when you left me
I moaned at your absence. Dear “she,”
My agony fell in between the cracks.

Hearts are nails, flowers thorns.
Butterflies run fast and free through my stomach
At the mention of your name, enslaved
As I am to the damn games you play!
I touched aesthetic beauty; I touched art
But once, and as I grow old love embraces
Me instead of I it, and I reminisce of a time
That yielded odors of an ageless wine.

How I wanted to grow old with you,
Embracing your love in the reflections
On the faces of our kids.

Dear Valentine, 
Embrace me even as you drink another’s wine,
Our love surpasses time.

8, February 2013 ©Ravi Teja Mandapaka, India


  

A writer’s delight

Sun in the light, shining,
Birds in delight, chirping.
Serenity of sleep nears an ending,
The often melancholic dreams, fading.

The delicious rooster signals day,
A luring time to make hay.
Here am I, curled up in the pillow act,
Sagacious ideas clouded, by cataract.

Lending prudence a plausible knock,
Avoiding yet another writer’s block,
Heartily do I open eyes,
To visualize where reality lies.

Sipping coffee, consummating thoughts in sanity,
I hold an ink – dipped quill to write poetry.

11,February 2013 ©Ravi Teja Mandapaka, India

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

How good a teacher The Hindu newspaper is!!!

Teacher, tool of wisdom, educator of the soul,
Priceless, immortal.
My nation, the Indian subcontinent,
Citizens of varied traditions and customs,
Race, religion, a land of languages;
Once people gathered at town’s dais
To listen to sages, philosophers and saints;
Fortunate, those who heard,
Who witnessed those eternal preachings;
And this generation of diminishing ethics
Has replaced my 1980’s, the last generation
Of genius, ones I admired.

One legitimate introspection, latter admitted.

Across ages, teachers of mine implanted
Stoicism, dauntlessness, patience. A Few,
Wielded the cane. The latter, abhorred to core.
My dearest teacher dons
Adroitness’s adjective, pragmatism’s adverb,
Runs parallel with consistency.
Oh Yes! It’s with finest editorial scissors, “The Hindu”.

How had “The Hindu” shaped my today?

An Indian from hamlets tiny untidy,
Schooling in local dialect,
“English”, a horrid language to learn.
Brother’s fair advice, to Read “The Hindu”
On a daily basis.
Sounded well, made a habit.
Before college, prudence in language well accomplished.
As I grew old, slavery to ‘tis English supremacy, obtained.
Linguistic acumen,
From the paper well learnt.
My Words, once puzzling, now sensible.
Sentences deprived of coherence, shaped meaningful.
In all, it reformed me, from an ignorant kid
To a man of wisdom.

Dear “The Hindu”, many thanks for being my teacher.

                                                                         13, February 2013 ©Ravi Teja Mandapaka, India,

 

 

You made no mistake dude!

Why are you so pale,

You vermin of the streets?

What is your tale,
your pitiful little story?
For what do you try;
why do you die?

Where will you be,
When the street’s darken cold?
What will you see
if you’re blind and you’re old?
When will your life become better,
if all you do is beg 
and flatter?

“No care or home for us,”
you say that no one pays 
attention; so helplessly 
you die each day, good health
comes at resurrection.

This is why we are so pale,
we vermin who crowd your streets;
This is our pitiful, helpless tale
our unheard, unsought of story.
So when we see the light we try,
and when we see the night
we cry.

 

 17, February 2013 ©Ravi Teja Mandapaka, India

 

Who will have the ‘lost’ laugh? 

 

Work in Orchid, good. Until that man demeaned me. On a lame walk did I curse sanely? Though Orchid a never nemesis.

 

A promise to my better half, my child, Of visiting a theater, Desiccated by an unworthy call. .

 

Off to home in gumption, a pavement walk, Life sailed well. An Orchidian in me felt safe, till a six wheeled vehicle, Appeared in vicinity. .

 

Ghostly did it hit me in haste, threw me out, And one car mauled my legs.

 

This plight of mine, limbs in amputation, I realized the drunkard’s jailing for sins. Is that enough a forfeiture? What pain should I bear living?

 

Thou drunkards spare me, Drinking a menace you should mitigate, When off the drive, Present your might.

 

Drunken driving, sorely homicidal, yet suicidal. Life away you, inertial, as you fructify Indian’s lives.

 

My story stands the same, Even if adept in safety. A sincere wish To Orchidians, master safety, And retort to unprivileged.

 

Let the substance spread, Let accidents be reduced, Let life attain tranquility, Let me be the last of this unfortunate.

 

18, February 2013 Courtesy: Ravi Teja Mandapaka, India

 

CATERPILLAR ON GREEN

 

AT noon, the day before my uncle’s visit, On the veins of a leaf, Passing through the midrib, With legs like unimaginable wheels of a train, Eyes like the head of a pin, Color mixed with leaf, Here, she moves slowly.

 

Oh! God. It’s a baby one. What sorrow can it make? I questioned. Brother replied, A caterpillar’s a caterpillar. Father, agreed with brother. And mother, if it’s bigger, its more harmful. “We don’t late. Kill quickly”. They said. And I replied, it would become a butterfly.

 

Brother took a stick, Made it liable, Took out and ended its life.

                                                                                                                                                      September, 2004 ©Ravi Teja Mandapaka, India

 

 

 

Unwanted and the needy

Why are you so pale?
Rather unpleasant script,
A life in vain.
Who would caress you,
And blanket your nemesis, life?
Who would hear thy pain,
And heal for gain?

Oh! Life early, a mare,
In elderly care,
How bad things turned,
What hast thou now?

Why don’t you go for work at light
And get your belly filled at night?

Dear God,
Help these hapless friends of mine, for
A dine with wine.

18, February 2013 ©Ravi Teja Mandapaka, India

Dear Mother, My Creation.

An omnipresent human,
A once girl child,
An igniting soul of mine,
Elegance in womanhood,
A divine creation.

Curtains dance to full swing,
Doors hug tight, often splashing,
But in one dark corner of a forgotten room
I am stationed, my mother
A relationship of me, myself, my soul,
A pale, rather unpleasant tale,
Of a bruised and humiliated man
With a ragged beard, smothering. 

How do I gather my poise,
With only a pen to tale of
That devilish moment my soul forsook me
As my eyes moistened, my heart bled, 
when thy carcass on the couch,

Put forth for one final time. 

All the hope in me was gone.
That day I entered as a stray sperm,

In your pelvic cavity,
Swam in flesh and blood of thine,
A picturesque nothingness,
Evoked your painstaking gestation

Those serene days of togetherness,
My infatuation, caught in your charisma;
I had not a full taste, nor did I caress
Your aching heart. After that as you know, mother

When cancer, a nemesis you confronted,
I, a student, turned into a dossier
Of reports and prescriptions in medicine.
The once tranquil times are now
Ignominious and loathsome.

Dear my mother,

As your physical state left us, I cried
for you; if I hurt when you left me
I moaned at your absence. 
My grief, touched heavens.

Life once prosperous, writhed to adversity

Hearts are nails, flowers thorns.
Butterflies run fast and free through my stomach
At the mention of your name.
As I am to the damn games you play!
I touched aesthetic beauty; I touched art
But once, and as I grow old love embraces
Me instead of I it, and I reminisce of a time
That yielded odors of an ageless wine.

How I wanted to grow old with you,
Embracing your love in the reflections
On your face, seeing us (your kids),
Attain glory. 

Dear Mother, 
Embrace me even as you find solace in heavens, 
our love surpasses time.

May your soul in sanity,
Rest in peace.

Your, younger son.

   

February 22, 2013. ©Ravi Teja Mandapaka, India

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