(un) Beaten Poem by prasanna kumari
(un) Beaten
Am waiting for you, my son
Between us time seems to stand still
I might have failed you, my son
Failed in transmitting love to fill
Once did tears stand like pearls
In my eyes, tenderness beamed
In my dreamy face(eyes) , a girl’s
Mirage, as wife, I a failure deemed
My mother, one for one and truly loveable
Suffering untold pain in life-giving joy
Gone now, but not gone her lullaby’s warble
I admit, ma, I am a beaten toy
My God, tender and kind, turned
His loving eyes towards me
I missed a beat, not responded
I feel a sense of failure deep within me
A teacher I am now, by chances strange
To kindle the spark of quest in you
Nay, shaped you not a burning flame-orange
Curse me not, my child, I am beaten like you
Sculptures I made with the clay of love
They turned out ugly or broke altogether
The sanctum sanctorum has no idol of love
Where I stand with my hands folded together
Offering tears of a beaten soul
Like the ripples of a smooth-flowing stream
My poems and myself have gone so far
Couldn’t you find your sweet day-dream
Reflect in my fancy’s silver-mirror for ever
Don’t you hear my silent songs
My sorrows are your sorrows too
My poems sing best of your pangs
As a poet I am not beaten true
A beautiful poem. It reminds me W.B.Yeats's A Prayer for My Daughter.
This is a very lovely work which evokes perhaps extra sympathy in me as a single parent. I thank you for your kind comments on my own work. Sincere regards, Roy
This is actually a great deal more than just a poem. This is more like a drama played out on a stage. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if this could not become a formal dramatic play. There is certainly enough content here for that. I am very impressed. GW62
Your tender words reveal a heart that unfolds a journey of love, both fragile and bold, weaving a bond that shines through pain and illuminates the soul's deepest lines.
Fragrance of Mother's love is exquisite. I tried to find out the truth of the fragrance but failed. As if the stream of the poem is sprouted directly from your heart.
Don’t you hear my silent songs My sorrows are your sorrows too My poems sing best of your pangs As a poet I am not beaten true. This is how a mother identifies herself with her offspring. Through unblemished unselfish love. Nice poem. Thank you for sharing.
Beautiful poem that begins in tears and ends in hope: 'My poems sing best of your pangs As a poet I am not beaten true' Truly a great write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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12/4/2025 10:47:40 PM # 1.0.0
As a poet you are not beaten, but stand on the zenith of perfection! This is what I feel on reading this poem. The sobs of a mother and her concerns and anxieties about her son, the self reproach at the thought of not having fulfilled her duties, all these are so poignantly brought out! Great! !