Skip to main content

Faith/God

“Remove the Ganpati from main door.
Move the god on the left to the right.
Move the god on the east to the south.
Do this. Do that. It will bring prosperity.
Paint your toilet yellow.
Keep cupboards on opposite walls.
Shift your stamp-cabinet to southwest.
That will remove negative energy from house.
You are keeping many gods in house.
It is good sign. But they will not be happy,
because you are keeping dog in house.
Do as I am saying.
God will shower blessings on you.”

Go away. Go far far away.
I don't want you and your god.
What kind of god is he that
will bless a house with yellow toilets only?
And if the saints say that He is everywhere,
how does it matter whether he be
in the south or east or southwest?
And by what rules of physics do
opposing cupboards remove negative energy?

My dog is my god,
for he brings me happiness.
Is that not a god's task?
My idols are my gods.
For in them I see Him
and adore Him.
My toilets, my cupboard, my house,
they are my gods.
For they give me shelter,
warmth and peace.

Go away! Take your beads and books,
crosses, charms, whatever.
Go and frighten frailer men.
I know my god.
He is I, and I am Him.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Nellie, 1983

Very often the sun rises in warm, golden rays on opening buds, birdsong and dewdrops, and the stench of stale death. Very often the sun rises Upon mutilated men - blood drying over their eyes and gore-caked machetes rusting in their abdomens. Very often the sun rises over hyaenas fretting over the carrion going waste - they can eat no more, nor can the vultures. Very often the sun rises on a day already defeated - shrieking, screeching, screaming, demanding that it go back for there was peace in the night. Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.

To the piece of orange peel in my bag on the trip to Janjira,

You were the only one to stay by my side when all others Had left me to travel that final stretch homeward alone And while I had to throw you away after two days Because of the stench that made me put the bag in the wash And earn mother's censure onto which she piled older grievances You did help relive some happy memories of the sea breeze And the boatmen's chatter and the old bronze cannons’ roar And cope with those whose IQ is less than yours And taught me that I was mortal in that ride across the creek And that like you I too shall one day be stripped of my essence And confined to the dustbin of humanity I miss you, orange peel Published in Lakdi Ka Pul - II The Poetry Bridge 2017 — an international anthology by Twin City Poetry Club