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.

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