Skip to main content

They'll come after me for that

My name is Raamesh Gowri Raghavan.
Which means in Mumbai (where I live),
I am a son of alien soil.
The Shiv Sena will come after me for that.
In Tamil Nadu, the DMK will want me
To pay for my Brahmin ancestors' misdeeds.
They'll come after me for that.

I'm fiercely, proudly middle-class
Not welcome in elite champagne parties.
I also support free markets:
The Naxals will come after me for that.
I have Muslim and Christian friends
But I am resolutely Hindu.
They'll come after me for that.

I'm an SEZ opposing environmentalist
Not appreciated by Mukesh Ambani.
But I don't belive in doing G20 stunts
Greenpeace will come after me for that.
I'm right-handed, I'm a feminist, I'm obese,
And I don't like Lata Mangeshkar's songs.
They'll come after me for that.

I know what they won't come after me for.
I'm a poet but not romantic
Nor radical nor baroque nor modern.
No publisher will come after me for that.
I also write short fiction,
Analytical pieces and even travelogues.
They won't come after me for that.

Comments

rocksea said…
hello Rameesh, i liked your straightforward flow, strong words, in your poems. and for sure a vote goes for you at indiblogger :)
Ozymandias said…
Thank you, Rocksea!

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.

Mother

Mother has many names. Anak Krakatau might be one of them, Or Uttarkashi or Qinghai, Haiti certainly is. She's the mother that swallowed Maui into her womb, the mother that disarmed Karna, who led Oedipus to sin. She plays pranks too, in that cheerful way unique to her. We find strange names to give them - tsunami, hurricane. Kalki is another name we've given her, for when she will be an old woman looking for some kind of elixir of youth. Perhaps some quack will mislead her to find it in our blood. She has a heart of gold they say - pure, molten lava, that sometimes erupts on her skin like a ripe pimple. She loves nothing more than the sound of babies crying - orphaned, bloodied, hungry, dying their carcasses feeding hyaenas. But hyaenas are her children too. But she is the green mother who feeds us, clothes us, protects us from the sun's ionizing radiation, we came from her loins, which is where we go.

Rat

I'm a rat, I'm a rat, I scurry and I bite, I eat what I get, And I fuck and I fight, I dodge the black crows, I run from your shoes, But I'm old or sick, you'll trample over me.