Skip to main content

This poem has attained ... nirvana

This... is a hungry poem.

It is    not meant to be a hungry poem.
It is meant to be a contented satisfied
poem that does not embarrass its government.
But it has nothing to feed on so it's hungry.

This... is an angry poem.

It is angry about
potholes and poverty
and the crowded buses and the rickety trains
and the baby-eating rats in the hospitals
and the cop-killing rich kids driving their dads' cars
and the police who lock up youths in the cells and
beat them to death and the miners cutting down the
forests and the army's atrocities on the
Northeast and the Naxals' butchering of hapless
tribals and the costs of onions and tomatoes
and ever rising petrol and diesel prices
and and and and and and and and and and and and...

This is a des..perate poem.

It wants to talk to someone who'll listen and tell
it not to commit suicide and tell it to
hope and love and be friends and see the roses and
the rivers and the koels and the moonlight and
hear the eternal music of the universe.

This... is a defeated poem.

It wants just to be left alone and not told what
to think or to wear or to read or to see, it
is a poem that wants to sit in a corner
and brood and sulk and cry and be miserable
among the dark shadows.. of its own making.

This ... is a waking poem.

It is a poem that knows the earth will turn round
again to meet the sun and will go on on its
revolutions undisturbed and that no one...
... No one ever cares what happens.

This ... is an arrested poem.

This is a poem that is going to be hanged.

This... is a poem that does not care.

This poem has attained ... nirvana.

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.

Dusk & Dawn

Sometimes it is hard to know, which is dusk and which is dawn. For was the day a mere eclipse, careening into the blackness of unending night? ...Or is night but an eye-blink, waiting for the light to come, first in trickles, and then in torrents? Sometimes it is hard to know, which is dusk and which is dawn.

Fit

 What we are is a jigsaw pieces that come together searching for edges that match some we know will never sit: a sideways glance, a crush, a lifelong regret; some we think will last, but no we stick around a while and then we know we are meant for other things, other people, other places but mostly just being othered some of us are corner pieces who know where we are and who will come to find us eventually I can only wish I was that and some of us are that piece that doesn't fit neither color nor shape nor corner we force it sometimes, set it aside for some later unfulfillable hope until it is too late to realise we were left over from another puzzle, with only the longing to fit, to belong, to be included