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Showing posts from February, 2009

On Much Of The Poetry That I Know

Much of the poetry that I know I think is klutzy mush. And that which is not klutzy mush I think is mushy klutz. Shelley's 'Lines To An Indian Air' Is a good example now. He said it was Champak-scented. Well, I do not know. All I can smell are diesel fumes And fresh buffalo dung. Klutzy mush and mushy klutz, Ada dada da! 'fI recite 'She Walks In Beauty' I'm eighteenth century. Babe magnets wear rapstar bling And do not sing of love. L.G.B.T. B.D.S.M. 'S All they prattle of. Mushy klutz and klutzy mush, Ada dada da! 'fI speak of 'Lord Ullin's Daughter' Or Wordsworth's Highland lass, They'll want to know her Orkut profile, Gtalk status message, Who writes on her Facebook wall, And what's her latest Tweet? Klutzy mush and mushy klutz, Ada dada da! I narrate Haiawatha's wooing Of fair Minnehaha. But the arty-tarty lot Appear at unease. They ask for darker shades of grey And whether he has angst. Mushy klutz and klutzy mus

Temple Day

Today is temple-going day. Queue is long with hundreds waiting to see me: praying to escape from sins, praying to get easy money, praying to resolve doubts. Outside one shop is there selling flowers and coconut to bribe me inside the temple. It is selling little cushions for cold metal idols to rest. It is selling brocade dresses for Parvati lined with jari. it is selling little cradles for baby God to sleep in. All for pious believers to dress up their Gods as if they are dolls. Am I a doll to be adored? Am I a doll to be played with? Am I a doll and not a dangerous king who will be angry if not looked upon with awe? Doll-god? God-doll? Mere idolatry of innocent faith? I want to sleep in the baby-cradle. I want to rest on on tiny cushions. I want to live in that doll shop.

Scissors

Give me a pair of scissors, and I go snip, snip, snip! Those ears that hear everything that I don't want heard, Give me a pair of scissors, and I go snip, snip, snip! That tongue that could never bring itself to say a kind word, Give me a pair of scissors, and I go snip, snip, snip! That nose that is never content to keep itself out of my way, Give me a pair of scissors, and I go snip, snip, snip! Those ears, those tongues, those noses, The crude society they represent, Give me a pair of scissors, and I go snip, snip, snip!

Paper

Appointment letters, visiting cards: pieces of paper that say I am CEO, Field Marshal, Minister of Railways. Pieces of paper with ink on them promises, commitments, obligations soaked into the fibre. Pieces of paper that bind in intangible chains, light in weight, stronger than fetters. But pieces of paper burn, Pieces of paper crumble, Pieces of paper dissolve in water. Commitments can wash away Obligations get torn up Promises go up in smoke. There shan't be any visiting cards or other pieces of paper: there shall only be me and my poems and my dreams.

Rock

Rock of the church I am forbidden from sin. Pillar of the establishment I am forbidden to fail. Prince of society I am forbidden to seek myself. Rock of the church I want to crumble! Pillar of the establishment I want to escape! Prince of society I am just me! Rock of the church I shall no more be that. Pillar of the establishment I shall cause it to fall. Prince of society I am I, and that is all!