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.

The Flying Scotsman

Yont   brattlin  clood an seelent glen Tweetlin a-lood the ingine skirls this noisome train wi lanely men hame-comin whaur thair lassies birls whit lends thay awe, an whit dets thirls whit ailin mam, whit seekly bairn thair dreams forby the train-smeuk swirls bi new gless tour or auncient cairn thay ken nae sang, thaur herts made airn thair mynds full o the twalmonth tack regairdless o loch, pen or tairn thay anely think o whit thay lack ay but thinkna muckle o it ye an a, we're an aw in it Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2017 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati