Simply Poetry


Sarojini Naidu

W: Wisdom comes from Living

We have already reached the last week of the  AtoZ blog challenge. But, i couldnt give my best shot for the NaPoWriMo as i took the much required breaks on Sundays leaving only 26 posts for the month 😉

So, Last phase of life, ahh! oldage , though the thought of nearing death might seem rather morbid to some, it can actually create peace of mind in some of the elderly .


And they get all the wisdom from life to give its lessons to the younger can enlighten us about the Meaning of Life. So lets see what lessons we get from the last phase of life 🙂



Hark,it is very much true

that time stops for no one thou

so arrives a moment to bid goodbye

slowly as the life takes a stepby

But I do treasure the spice and scent

of rich and passionate memories blent

like odours of cinnamon, sandal & clove

of song & sorrow and life & love

Here I am to share the very fragrance

to fill you all with its effervescence

of what I comprehend from this life

and  let you reckon without much strife.

© uniqusatya, All rights reserved

Therein I treasure the spice and scent

Of rich passionate memories blent

Like odours of cinnamon,sandal and clove

Of song and sorrow ;and life and love

is an excerpt from one of the works of  ‘Sarojini Naidu’

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E: Everyone has a task to do

Lesson five

ye have not lived, ye but exist

till some resistless hour shall rise and move

your hearts to wake and hunger after love

and thirst with passionate longing for the things

that burn your brows with blood-red sufferings

ye have not lived, ye but exist

for there is so much more to be done

in the time to come and unwaged wars to be won,

The Purpose of this life though already destined

you shall seek and succeed them for all mankind

© uniqusatya, All rights reserved

 AtoZ blog challenge


ye have not lived, ye but exist

Till some resistless hour shall rise and move

Your hearts to wake and hunger after love

And thirst with passionate longing for the things

That burn your brows with blood-red sufferings.

is an excerpt from one of the works of the Nightingale 0f India ‘Sarojini Naidu’

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Tribute to a Leader-Visionary -Poetess


The poet fraternity of India is privileged to have this nightingale among them and on their behalf; I dedicate few words to her on her 135th birthday anniversary today.

One with a magical pen,

And proved an ideal women

For country’s freedom she did strive

And, so for her family, she did thrive

As the nation salutes one of its leaders

I present to you some of her inspiring letters:

Cheers to ‘The Nightingale of India’

Mrs Naidu picture card to Mr Jinnah_thumb[5]

Hyderabad is fortunate for such a jewel is born here who exposed the beauty of the city with her magical words.

Simple yet fascinating is her style of expression which you can see for yourself in two of the works in her own words here


SEE how the speckled sky burns like a pigeon’s throat, 
Jewelled with embers of opal and peridote.

See the white river that flashes and scintillates, 
Curved like a tusk from the mouth of the city-gates.

Hark, from the minaret, how the muezzin’s call 
Floats like a battle-flag over the city wall.

From trellised balconies, languid and luminous 
Faces gleam, veiled in a splendour voluminous.

Leisurely elephants wind through the winding lanes, 
Swinging their silver bells hung from their silver chains.

Round the high Char Minar sounds of gay cavalcades 
Blend with the music of cymbals and serenades.

Over the city bridge Night comes majestical, 
Borne like a queen to a sumptuous festival.

In The Bazaars of Hyderabad

What do you sell, O ye merchants?

Richly your wares are displayed,

Turbans of crimson and silver,

Tunics of purple brocade,

Mirrors with panels of amber,

Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, O ye vendors?

Saffron, lentil and rice.

What do you grind, O ye maidens?

Sandalwood, henna and spice.

What do you call, O ye pedlars?

Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?

Wristlet and anklet and ring,

Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,

Frail as a dragon-fly’s wing,

Girdles of gold for the dancers,

Scabbards of gold for the king.

What do you cry, O fruitmen?

Citron, pomegranate and plum.

What do you play, O ye musicians?

Sitar, Sarangi and drum.

What do you chant, O magicians?

Spells for the aeons to come.

What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?

With tassels of azure and red?

Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,

Chaplets to garland his bed,

Sheets of white blossoms new-gathered

To perfume the sleep of the dead.

Sarojini Naidu

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