When the bark of the sagwan

was brown and dark,

it stood in the storm

like a rock.


Withstanding all the  seasons ,

firm and tough

the bark was considered

for long.


A hollowness now creates


amidst the forest,

like a dungeon

in a cave.


White flowers swung

with light fragrance,

ready is the mighty ,

to be cut and laid…


the enormity of sagwan

forever remains,

like a lore

in the forest tales.



Sagwan: teak tree

Teak or Sagwan Tectona grandis in Kolkata, Wes...
Teak or Sagwan  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)





33 thoughts on “THE SAGWAN

  1. dranilj1

    Pretty pleasingly flowing delicacy and grace; delighting the senses, exciting intellectually, and compelling emotional admiration!

  2. First, thank you for introducing me to this sagwan tree. With strength and an enormous presence conferred on it, one could tell what will happen when it’s gone.

  3. What a beautiful depiction, Soumya, you have made the ‘Sagwan’ a most inspirational source of rock like strength. I did relish it having rated it as an ‘Excellent’ one.

  4. ……..always, their stories are passed to us in the falling leaves and in the rings beneath her ancient skin. I love this. It falls into the same category as some of the Cherokee folklore that I love so much. Thank you for sharing. ~ All my love, Bobbie

  5. Pingback: Pretend – A Saturday Poetry Post | Lyrical Anarchy


    Forlorn orphan October, out of place
    Within the embers of the fading year
    Where trees, their naked limbs a’shiver,
    Stand around dolefully, orphans too,

    Here down by the river that observes, reflective,
    Passes by without pausing or check of pace,
    Passes no comment save a quiet chuckling,
    Passes on free of burdensome fare thee wells.

    Elders, beeches, larches, oaks and willows
    Barely remembering how they, full of grace and cheer,
    Chattering with birds, in their own carefree abandon
    Sent forth tiny scents hell bent on teasing the senses,

    Decked in tiny new grown gowns of green.
    Always green some witch’s curse, perhaps?
    How ever else could they, over and over, be so green?
    Little suspecting answering the gentle beckoning,

    The flowery poésie of foliate Spring,
    Forebodes the florid tumescence to come
    That scorches and parches and flays
    And discolours and wrinkles and crumbles

    A comely gown, no longer to admire
    Or clothe a beckoning bower.
    The river, emerged mysteriously from the earth,
    Is lost now among the waves’ unending song.

share your suggestions,comments and thoughts on this ...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s