Voices Within: Parneet Jaggi

Parneet Jaggi teaches English at Dr. Bhim Rao Ambedkar Government College, Sri Ganganagar. She has four collections of poems in English, namely Beyond Words, Show me How not to Grow, Live Love Light and Euphonies of Heart and Soul. Her poems have been published in journals like The Enchanting Verses International Journal, the Taj Mahal Review, Contemporary Literary Review India, Harvards of the New Millenium, The Criterion, Setu (USA) etc. Her 25 poems were included in the anthology of contemporary English poets , “Wordwine” brought out by Delhi Poetree . Her research books, Matthew Arnold and the Bhagavad Gita: A Study of His Poems and Social and Economic Values in the Teachings of Sikh Gurus reveal her love for religion and philosophy.

Aroma of Love  

One emotion encompasses all piety,
not needed to showcase
in the splendour of colours and perfumes.
Love has its own colour- matchless,
An aroma,
 that swirls inside the core of existence. 
The heart may be made of cells- living or dead
or whatever else scientists may name.
Aroma touches the core,
spreads like smoke,
invisibly effecting the whole being,
emanating from the voices
and gaits of lovers.

Aroma of love embraces
all pathies, isms and religions.
A  puff  of locked gases
which can be locked no more,
erupts like a volcano,
flows down , 
stratifies uneven lands.
Hot molten lava of love
holds the power
to eliminate filth of the world
and to erect high peaks 
on new mountains.

Unconditional

The word 'unconditional ' scares me.
I check if the talk is about
the sun or the moon.
If it pertains to the human kingdom,
it certainly has changed meanings.
A regular symbiosis sustains him,
else he dies of dearth.
He bears scarcity no more.
No matter it challenges his veracity
but his storehouse needs refilling.
Wealth may be visible,
yet invisible requisites need more space.
Filled, refreshed, repaired.
Ego locks the chest
filled with greed,
keeps it under a heavy veil,
This chest is the crown on his head.


Love This, Love That

Love this, love that,
Like this, like that.
Seems like a script given to act,
a few moments of rehearsal,
then the performance ,
then time to slip back to one's tiny shell.
Come back again,
the script is ready,
Love this , love that,
Like this , like that,
this time a bit more intense,
feel choked.
Can't do it each time,
 not for me,
a role of a goodie godman,
wasting time,
defining words,
constructing languages,
barriers along,
when the heart feels not the same.

One wants to be oneself,
Not what the newspaper wants one to be
Scaring day and night
 with the filth spreading around,
Covering it with one lesson of the day-
‘Love this, love that.’ 


A Class for Expecting Mothers

A class was held,
Expecting mothers sat in a row,
ready for a fruitful lecture
from the most learned scholars.
Their babies expected
to add to the light of their world soon,
resting in dark for the few blessed days.
The class had all arrangements
to dress up the thirty upcoming leaders
with cloaks of treachery. 
There were lectures on identity, 
a favourite topic with the learned elites.
Talks on race, caste, religion 
topped the pudding.
Do's and not do's garnished 
the food of living.
Very soon,
 programmed and chipped beings
 with two arms and two legs
would grace the earth
and prepare lectures for unborn generations.

Voices Within - Complete List of Poets ::  Setu, January 2019

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