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Kissed by Rain: Poems About Rain and the World It Creates


Poems on Rain

For some, rain breathes life into parched landscapes, coaxing vibrant greens and blossoms from the earth. To others, it washes urban streets clean, unveiling intricate details and forgotten corners. Rain possesses a unique ability to gently touch and subtly transform everything it encounters. Here, in this collection of poems, we celebrate the quiet wonder of rain as it kisses and revitalizes the world around us.


Movements in the Wild by Shobha Tharoor Srinivasan


Lolloping zebras in the savanna,

A leopard’s curvet from the trees.

Monkeys swing with their bananas,

Hippos huddle where they please.


A giraffe’s long-limbed graceful amble

A large pachyderm’s swaying gait

The wildebeest’s swift-footed gamble

As loping lions roam and wait.


Hyenas saunter to their carrion

Tall emus stride and stroll

Vultures descend with their clarion

Rhinos toe-walk to their goal.


But then the sudden cloudburst-

The afternoon downpour-

Grasses glisten as rain fills its thirst,

The Serengeti begs for more.


But animals run for shelter

Gazelles hasten their annual move

The BIG FIVE is helter skelter

Hurtling on hind and hoove!


Their movements mark a purpose.

Their travel a wet-season range.

Flowing water never a surplus.

But the foraging has a change.


The rains touch and transform everything.

It can flood and it can nourish.

Rains grow the earth but deluge bring.

Objects destroyed yet systems flourish.



I love movies with Rain as a character by Anamika Nath


Rain has always been a character.

How it transforms the scene and the

Narrative! A Kathak dancer

starts the bol of Teentaal: lifts

her anarkali skirt and merges with the rain.

It dances on rooftops,

splashes through city streets,

gently taps on the windows,

as the mom pulls out the scented letters

of yesteryears and the incense fumes

hug her grey hairs, while the window chimes

feel the slithering by winds,

the secrets flood with the downpour.

The Rain tells stories

of longing and bewilderment;

the kiss of star-crossed lovers,

the cleansing of past wounds,

or the outstretching arms,

the newfound freedom,

washing away the old and ushering in the new.

Rain speaks of melancholy and introspection,

like the hauntingly beautiful scenes

where the rain amplifies the unspoken tension

and forbidden desire between the characters.

Or the poignant moments

where rain-drenched streets witness the silent,

heart-wrenching bond

between a father and son

caught in a world of crime and redemption.

It’s in the reflective pools where they

see their true selves, in the relentless downpour

that hides tears, and in the gentle drizzle

that brings solace. Rain marks transitions,

from sorrow to joy, from despair to hope,

and from isolation to connection.

the journey to be one with the rain,

with each droplet,

with every catch and miss.



Dharwad Rain by Ajay Koyimuttal


It was too much heat and

It became cloudy.

Suddenly there was lightning,

Thunderstorms and rain.


It rained over and across

The roads of Jubilee circle

On the metal head of

The Ambedkar statue.


The tin roofs of the Chigri bus,

Got the hammering from

The silver nails too.

Sending rhythmic tones


To whoever sat within it.

It rained on the dusty old scooter

Unveiling its name to the world

"Bajaj Chetak"- like it was a fossil.


The kids in the white shirt and

Blue shorts ran around to collect

The ice cubes of the hail.

It rained on their tiny heads.


Over the tripling college boys

On their Splendor Plus and

Over the empty Kingfisher bottles

To mock the chill out of the beer.


It rained on hospital signboards

That said 'do not honk.'

It rained over a punctured tyre

That just wanted to burn in fire.


Over the pigeons and the crows

And the maize feed that they

Wanted to eat- that's how

Their hot meal turned cold.


It wanted to rain on Elliot's

Wastelands too and Silvia's

Fig tree before it could even

Branch out more.


Even on Bukowski's whores

And wine and on that

Frost's road not taken and its

Fresh grass; till one could-


No longer tell the difference

From the other one.

But it strictly wanted to be local,

For some reason.


So it let Karim Mulla's grave

Drench and Chakkadi Balya's

Thirst quench.

By the smell of Mirchi Girmit

It let the crowd elate.


And one of those tractors

To pass playing a Janapad song

On full blast- It let itself

Loosen up a bit to have-


A little fun for a while and

Dance in Tappanguchi style.


*Mirchi Girmit- local food prepared from puffed rice

*Janapad song- Songs in local slang often played in tractors

*Tappanguchi- local free style dance



A Soft Kiss on a Broken Glass by Muhammad Kamran Fiaz


In cities,

Rain is a lover's whisper


In a village,

It's a soft kiss on a broken glass


Buffalo, cow, and a goat

that ami brought along in her dowry

Are waiting for the grass


Aba is worried,

With tomorrow,

That is always today,

Animals will be in the mud,

And the grass,

Too wet to cut and feed.


Baji ran,

From teaching math,

To the younger brother,

To secure the cage of parrot.


Ami told us

Baji studied,

Until fifth grade,

But she was always good,

with remembering the dates,

of funerals, weddings,

And the last day,

Of paying bills,

And fees.


Dadi

With her almost closed,

Eyes lined with kohl,

Sees the crows,

Circling and kraaing,

"Only a wedding in the rain."


Ami is looking,

At the Bougainville vine,

In the courtyard,

"Hummingbirds have made their nest over it"

Ami has told everyone,

like a secret.


She planted it,

In her early days of marriage,

When she used to watch

PTV dramas,

And they all had

Bougainville.


Growth of these plants

In the courtyard

Gives her the only

Sense of belonging

And ownership

In her home

That is of Aba.

Like everything else

And us

Known and called

by the name of aba.



Rain is like a thousand dreams by Susmita Ghosh


It is said, that nature is embedded in your soul

and on some days it caresses your existence, 

while in the others it consumes your leftovers.


I was thirteen when my grandmother

first read me a verse from "Meghdutam", 

that spoke about how the clouds in our Indian monsoon, 

carried messages from two estranged lovers. 

I was fascinated to know how the sky, 

who was my best friend as the loneliest child 

have secretly nurtured messengers in its bosom, 

while the rains, which were like my emotions, 

who were kept unexpressed for a long time 

had decided to bless barren lands and bare bodies, 

with the hope of life one day. 


Rain has always been my mother's enemy.

She cursed monsoons every year, 

as the feeble architecture of our house, 

sheltered raindrops within the cracks of its skin

with leaking ceilings and clogged drains in the attic, 

drowned her desires, wishes, and dreams

and my father stayed silent, 

quite like his promises in their relationship

while I hummed a verse from Miya ki Malhar 

"bijuri chamke jiyara tarse"

(My heart longed for the thunder to strike.) 

when, actually, my little heart only wanted to strike peace. 


I grew tired of clogged attics and messengers

but the rain kept on embracing my existence. 

It dripped through my uncombed hair, 

as I attended my first pride march 

and my flag soaked against my backbone

and my chest, 

making it difficult to differentiate between 

a human skin and a cloth made with revolution, 

while rainbows were born beneath the sky that day. 

Rain touched my eyelids as I cried, 

while returning home from a hard day at work

and it held my face, just like my alter ego does

to tell me "the thunders are temporary, flowers are permanent

and you can harness both"


My girlfriend tells me, 

কলকাতার বৃষ্টি সবচেয়ে সুন্দর

(The rains in Kolkata are the prettiest) 

and I agree with how they describe rain's 

ability to transform a person's heart. 

Yet at times, rain does have a heart of stone, 

to intrude through economic disparities

and create potholes, while flooding roofless lives

and sometimes it does save a sprout

in a country where crops are compared to gold. 

For me, rain is like a thousand dreams 

falling from the sky to touch their dreamers

and we, the children of a beautiful poem

wait for the rainbows to bloom in our lives.



I Was Not Named After a Peacock by Khatija Khan


Abandonment is the fluid

running in the veins of my city.

In its palms,

it holds her men and women

whose minds blossom into

uncountable rain harvesting methods-

tumblers on the terrace,

sprinklers in the fields,

earthen pots and whatnots

to celebrate the downpour.

Maa always collects a lot of water

but then abandons it, unknowingly.


Like every other child of the rain,

I too, was not named after a peacock.

There was music everywhere,

yet I could not dance enough.

I was left to sprout like soft moss.

Pa forgot to pick me

after my first day of school

so I searched for a shelter

with a tiny snail.

It took me longer than

the longest forever.


Every exhibition comes to a halt

in my city when the sky

arrives wearing its petrichor skirt

and rainbow sandals.

The earth swallows the aftermath

of the raindrops in no time

as the people living in small homes

curse the rain for snatching the sense

of belongingness from them.

The birds forget the windowsills

they took refuge upon as the sky roared.

Maa forgot me along with the

day I was born.

Yesterday I turned twenty.

My family will never know.


Like every other child of the rain,

I folded colorful papers into

origami paper boats and left them

to explore the narrow streets

full of small businesses panicking

about water pelting down

and seeping through their tents.

I chewed chalky jamuns

and looked at how they painted

my tongue purple.

As the rain broke into rivers

of chaos,

I broke into ponds of tears

in my room.


The government alerts the public

about probabilities of flood

almost every year.

Deaths never decrease

because the language

of rain on dissolving cities

is unknown to man.

Whoever tries to interpret

its path, loses himself.

Whoever tries to run away,

becomes one with it.


Rain and its children

contradict each other.

Like every other child of the rain,

I wore my raincoat

and tried to save my body

even though it was a liability

disguised as an asset.

Like every other child of the rain,

I couldn't master

the art of pouring

my feelings everywhere.

All I did was evaporate

and evaporate and evaporate

until one day, I became a grey cloud.


Some day,

I will fall over my city

and soak it in a fresh Ghazal.

Only when abandonment abandons it,

I will evaporate again.


 

About the Poets (In Order of the appearances of their poems):


  1. Shobha Tharoor Srinivasan is an award-winning children’s author, poet, and voice-over talent who won the prestigious 68th National Film Awards in India for Best Narration Voiceover for the film Rhapsody of Rains- Monsoons of Kerala in 2022. Shobha has recorded voice work for documentaries, educational programmes, journalistic initiatives, and audiobooks and her distinct, mellifluous voice embellishes her own narratives as well. Shobha’s dozen works of fiction and nonfiction have been published in India and United States and her children’s books have been excerpted in school texts and are part of school curricula in India. Shobha’s writing has also been anthologized by Tulika Books, Solstice, and Skipping Stones and her essays and reviews have appeared in publications including India Currents, Bizworld, and Scroll.in. Shobha has been featured on radio and TV, profiled in magazines and one of her stories was dramatically performed by Silicon Valley Shakespeare, California. Shobha’s short stories for children A Treasure Trove of Timeless Tales (Red Panda/Westland) and first book for adults, Good Innings (Penguin), have been translated into Malayalam. Shobha’s latest book Look Before You Leap (Red Panda/Westland) explores the origins of idioms in our classical tales.

  2. Dr. Anamika Nath hails from Tripura but is currently working as a Forensic Medicine Faculty in Assam. She is the recipient of many national awards in this speciality. She is the author of two literary books and her writings have been published in national and international literary magazines and have won awards from many organisations, including the Ministry of Home Affairs. Recently, her poem "Bakul Dreams" was awarded the Poesis Award for Excellence in Poetry in the 13th Rabindranath Tagore International Poetry Competition. Her poem "My wardrobe has mitochondrial DNA" made it to the long list of the Wingword Poetry Competition. She had won contests from Delhi Poetry Slam and Chanting Bards by Xpress Publication. She is the Poetry Editor of The Boundless Press. She is also a state-level award winner in photography. Being a mother of two, she balances both her professional and personal life.

  3. Ajay Koyimuttal, hailing from Dharwad, Karnataka, completed his graduation in Agricultural Sciences. Professionally a trader, he is almost obsessively engaged in writing poems. He writes on different themes, with satire being his favorite. Ajay has self-published two collections so far and hopes to compile more in the future.

  4. Muhammad Kamran Fiaz is a PhD Scholar of Political Science with MPhil in South Asian Studies. Currently, he is a visiting lecturer. He is interested in interdisciplinary approaches and exploring different social perspectives of decolonisation, modernity, democracy, resistance, harmony, justice and the selfhood of societies. He is interested in world literature, especially African and Arabic literature. He is haunted by the echoes of longing, roshandan and abandoned places where people once lived, bred and thrived. He explores different perspectives of belonging and resistance through his photography and poetry.

  5. Susmita Ghosh introduces herself as an amateur poet, yet her poems reveal a refined and sophisticated talent.

  6. Khatija Khan, 20-year-old poet from Khandwa, has made PoemsIndia her poetic playground, with her verses regularly stealing the spotlight.



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