Nothing more, nothing less
A justice exonerated for a crime,
Another crime meted out for an engagement;
Restlessness, the fervour of new generation,
Had a say like a sermon, with
Good wine and cheap thrills;
Nothing more, nothing less
We still lived for an accidental cause
Like an overdose and a wild raunchy ride;
Simulation, the new essence of humanity
Procreate along the origin, and
Borne are we
Nothing more, nothing less
As humans, as greater mortals and
Dies a quite dead...
Nothing more, nothing less.
Someday, they will exonerate our fickle lies
Even after we are long death
May be for a greater cause called Hope!
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Mr.Patriot, I Am Waiting For You!
When I listen to those finger pointing songs
I think of you, Mr. Patriot and
Wanted to blame you hard: Where were you,
For so long, to comfort these bleeding
In the hills, in the plain, and in my heart
Should I tell you, Mr. Patriot
That we are late for the occasion
To sing our patriotic songs and convince them
That we are correct and true like morning sun!
Listening to those songs,
I think of the rot and dirt and the irritation
And numerous gentlemen with outrageous reputation
You know, they too called themselves patriots
I guess, might be of a different ilk, unlike you
I know, I even heard you singing in pain
For what you have seen in the dead men
For what you have heard from the wails of widows
But these patriots, they praise the death and
Never hesitate to hold the hands of widows;
What a shame, they even promise the compensation
Like poll-time gimmicks and rigged ballot paper
What a shame, they measure the virtues of the decease
And nobody was there to throw him a shoe!
Mr. Patriot, do you still think
Words are enough to awake the sleep and
Restore the hearty contempt for them
To feel alive again, for the endangered species? Or,
Do you still fear those cheap bullets and
Self-styled reformists who can’t read
What you have written, thinking
You are the only son of your parents?
Well, I too start writing poems
Voluminous poems on ghastly jokes, like
Death, self-respect and patriotism; you know
For us endangered species, these are jokes
Even to think of a natural death,
Even to talk about self-respect and
There is not a single parlance on patriotism, and
I incite myself, waiting for you!
I think of you, Mr. Patriot and
Wanted to blame you hard: Where were you,
For so long, to comfort these bleeding
In the hills, in the plain, and in my heart
Should I tell you, Mr. Patriot
That we are late for the occasion
To sing our patriotic songs and convince them
That we are correct and true like morning sun!
Listening to those songs,
I think of the rot and dirt and the irritation
And numerous gentlemen with outrageous reputation
You know, they too called themselves patriots
I guess, might be of a different ilk, unlike you
I know, I even heard you singing in pain
For what you have seen in the dead men
For what you have heard from the wails of widows
But these patriots, they praise the death and
Never hesitate to hold the hands of widows;
What a shame, they even promise the compensation
Like poll-time gimmicks and rigged ballot paper
What a shame, they measure the virtues of the decease
And nobody was there to throw him a shoe!
Mr. Patriot, do you still think
Words are enough to awake the sleep and
Restore the hearty contempt for them
To feel alive again, for the endangered species? Or,
Do you still fear those cheap bullets and
Self-styled reformists who can’t read
What you have written, thinking
You are the only son of your parents?
Well, I too start writing poems
Voluminous poems on ghastly jokes, like
Death, self-respect and patriotism; you know
For us endangered species, these are jokes
Even to think of a natural death,
Even to talk about self-respect and
There is not a single parlance on patriotism, and
I incite myself, waiting for you!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
I am afraid of this life!
I have a frightening little secret
I am afraid of dying
I know not too well its deadliness
But, I know it is quite frightening a prospect!
Somebody died yesterday, and
The corpse, I didn’t know, so beautiful;
Asked for a make-up, I don’t know why?
But, it said, I am afraid of its revelations,
And it wanted my company, I guess:
It wanted me to give a feel of it
The feeling of deadliness
The weariness of living,
Oh! What a thought for a living person, and
What a generosity from the death.
I am afraid of this life.
I am afraid of dying
I know not too well its deadliness
But, I know it is quite frightening a prospect!
Somebody died yesterday, and
The corpse, I didn’t know, so beautiful;
Asked for a make-up, I don’t know why?
But, it said, I am afraid of its revelations,
And it wanted my company, I guess:
It wanted me to give a feel of it
The feeling of deadliness
The weariness of living,
Oh! What a thought for a living person, and
What a generosity from the death.
I am afraid of this life.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Dirt Poem For A Lost Patriot!
On a certain bright, sunny day,
A self proclaimed patriot, wearing flakes of pittance
Mocks the dirty road, spits in the manholes
And jeers the stakes of skeletons in the pavement!
Later in the day,
A pacifist, swelled with hunger, cleans the dirt
And signs a treatise for the day, singing
Rhymes out of hunger.
In between, few glossed ads, and
Promises galore, all in the name of martyrdom;
In between, cacophony of anthems, and
Blunt bayonets, for many a mimed soldiers!
Then, suddenly the clash of ideologues
Stages erect and flags flutter,
There they met
Me in the crowd and duel,
I was the sole witness.
A weary duel,
I thought thus and left for home;
I wanted to spit again but my face wriggled, and
All of them follow my path, in hordes,
Like my shadow, poor stony shadows of skeletons!
A petrified soul, burdened with the treaty
Seek ways to becalm the unrest, in the dirt
But the nadir and the glow-signs, they
Drew me far, leaving flags in the wilderness, and
Anthems in hollow drums.
A self proclaimed patriot, wearing flakes of pittance
Mocks the dirty road, spits in the manholes
And jeers the stakes of skeletons in the pavement!
Later in the day,
A pacifist, swelled with hunger, cleans the dirt
And signs a treatise for the day, singing
Rhymes out of hunger.
In between, few glossed ads, and
Promises galore, all in the name of martyrdom;
In between, cacophony of anthems, and
Blunt bayonets, for many a mimed soldiers!
Then, suddenly the clash of ideologues
Stages erect and flags flutter,
There they met
Me in the crowd and duel,
I was the sole witness.
A weary duel,
I thought thus and left for home;
I wanted to spit again but my face wriggled, and
All of them follow my path, in hordes,
Like my shadow, poor stony shadows of skeletons!
A petrified soul, burdened with the treaty
Seek ways to becalm the unrest, in the dirt
But the nadir and the glow-signs, they
Drew me far, leaving flags in the wilderness, and
Anthems in hollow drums.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Rendition of a timid Patriot!
I took a deep breath, and
Pondered about certain sheep, black or white
For a moment, I thought of William Blake, and
How he did professed the sheep, or the Lamb, and
The obvious Innocence and the evident Christ!
The subsequent moment,
I was there in the ridges, hiding my skin
Because, I was afraid
Of cultivation they ploughed with spade and a rough mallet.
While counting the sprouts of freedom
Someone in the bush, next to me, hushed:
"Here lies the spirits of silent soldiers, and you crouched;
Rise and look, these blood streams to the plain, and
The present, past and future; all burnt in the trail
So rise, and rear many more lambs, if not now
Wolves will howl in daylight and weeping widows will curse endless nights!"
I sunk deeper, weak in the knees, and
Blamed the heart that nibbled in harmony, and
I know I am still a timid patriot, hiding in the ridges
But the rising inferno, it also burns my plight.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Whose Poem Is It, Anyway?
What it really takes for me to write a poem and what makes me write a poem? I think, I will never be able to understand. And I am not too sure either if it has got anything to do with what I feel. I still remember various one-liners, quotes and sayings on poems and why people write poems, more or less with the rhymes and forms. In fact, my poems are more of words in whichever form or order they wish to come by. We have got so many poets and self proclaimed poets amidst us; sometimes it is utterly amusing even to think of poets and this trade of being in poetry! For me, I think, I write poems, my so called poems, in anger. Yea, as a kid, I used to compose words to impress my friends. May be I still do it. But, those friends have left with their lives and I am here alone, seeking friends within myself, who can understand what I feel and why get angry. I think, I write for myself and to channelize my anger.
Good times have passed since I first wrote my first poem. Theme was rather funny; on a tree. A tree soaked in monsoon rain. I borrowed the words from the books I have read, listened and imbibed in the classes, in tuitions, in playgrounds and from funga wari. Those words have able to leave a permanent mark on my life. I still think, I think with those words. Even more, there were stories, real or make-belief, from my parents, grandparents and local guardians. The bullets whizzing past my grandma's ears, long rifles with bayonets, saving the last cruse for another day, having to eat only the dried fish while hiding…during World War II and many duels involving Japanese and British armies. Those stories were real stories for me and I can still relate with places and remnants of that great period. The stories of many a rituals and celebrations, those stories still reverberate and I compare those events with what is happening, including my own part, playing roles. Unluckily, these recurring roles eclipsed the stories I have heard and cherished for so long. May be, I have also changed. I might have involved myself with these roles I am playing, sometimes a terrorist, sometimes a poet, sometimes a thief and?
Then, whose poem is it? I don't know!
Today, death comes easy in my poems. Everybody dies in my poem and the graves are the pages I save to write. Those stories were overshadowed by the events I cannot understand. I have beautiful memories. I enjoyed my childhood in the abundance of nature and freedom. Until this happened?
They carried my first poem in school magazine. From that day, I have become the seeker of angst. And my land also started to fume, giving company to my anger and restlessness. Now, I am comfortable with death poems and happy to harness the anger within. Hope, I will be able to keep this anger as long as I am alive. At least, it will keep me busy.
Reasons for anger: everybody knows!
The fields I once roamed freely have become killing fields, my classrooms where I first learn to respect the National Anthem have become barracks of armies carrying the National Flag of that very nation, our famed Nine-ridges have become another thousand ghettos; what else? I am angry because, places that live in my heart have been reduced to ashes. I am angry because my Motherland is bleeding. I am afraid if our children will ever understand the stories I have listened from my grandparents! And I really doubt if we will ever have our children!
And most of my poems, they manifest the anger I harvest. I think our children, at some point of time, will read these poems in their full glory! Hope this is how stories continue…
Good times have passed since I first wrote my first poem. Theme was rather funny; on a tree. A tree soaked in monsoon rain. I borrowed the words from the books I have read, listened and imbibed in the classes, in tuitions, in playgrounds and from funga wari. Those words have able to leave a permanent mark on my life. I still think, I think with those words. Even more, there were stories, real or make-belief, from my parents, grandparents and local guardians. The bullets whizzing past my grandma's ears, long rifles with bayonets, saving the last cruse for another day, having to eat only the dried fish while hiding…during World War II and many duels involving Japanese and British armies. Those stories were real stories for me and I can still relate with places and remnants of that great period. The stories of many a rituals and celebrations, those stories still reverberate and I compare those events with what is happening, including my own part, playing roles. Unluckily, these recurring roles eclipsed the stories I have heard and cherished for so long. May be, I have also changed. I might have involved myself with these roles I am playing, sometimes a terrorist, sometimes a poet, sometimes a thief and?
Then, whose poem is it? I don't know!
Today, death comes easy in my poems. Everybody dies in my poem and the graves are the pages I save to write. Those stories were overshadowed by the events I cannot understand. I have beautiful memories. I enjoyed my childhood in the abundance of nature and freedom. Until this happened?
They carried my first poem in school magazine. From that day, I have become the seeker of angst. And my land also started to fume, giving company to my anger and restlessness. Now, I am comfortable with death poems and happy to harness the anger within. Hope, I will be able to keep this anger as long as I am alive. At least, it will keep me busy.
Reasons for anger: everybody knows!
The fields I once roamed freely have become killing fields, my classrooms where I first learn to respect the National Anthem have become barracks of armies carrying the National Flag of that very nation, our famed Nine-ridges have become another thousand ghettos; what else? I am angry because, places that live in my heart have been reduced to ashes. I am angry because my Motherland is bleeding. I am afraid if our children will ever understand the stories I have listened from my grandparents! And I really doubt if we will ever have our children!
And most of my poems, they manifest the anger I harvest. I think our children, at some point of time, will read these poems in their full glory! Hope this is how stories continue…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
