Lillian @ Poetry

I forget the word

2010-07-08T03:05:00.000-07:00

I lay there
In dreamless imposed sleep
My body, lost deep in soft white folds,
Occasionally, glazed eyes came into focus,
Ears heard the faint moan of a body.
Each cell inside me had settled down… settled in,
I tried hard, to nudge myself.
Will to get up, search among the debris, for once me.
But I lay there, in limbo, motionless
I dug deep, hours
there came to mind a word…
I know not its meaning.

Wish I knew what

2010-03-16T06:53:00.000-07:00

I meander around wide halls,
in circles,
an Exit, not an Exit after all.

Bright yellow lights,
bounce of the polished yellow floor,
blind me.
Its the club of the elite,
yet it seems so ordinary,
in a poor sort of way.

I step out into the semi darkness of dusk
feeling let down
something just died,
surrounded by lavishness and liveried men,
Wish I knew what.

Untitled

2010-03-07T03:13:00.000-08:00

There is thick dust at the big black gate,
sheeted metal pulled together, cold and silent,
locked.

Dust, gathered in a ball,
mixed with long grey hair,
an empty sachet of chewing tobacco.
It all flies a bit this side, then that,
each time a vehicle whizzes by.

A big thick red stain runs long,
dried into the concrete by the sun,
ugly, tomato sauce that someone stepped on.

2009-12-16T06:32:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you'll fuck my mind dudes,
Sneer at the world I come from.

This world,
So upright.
So uptight.
And too fucked to admit it.

8.00 p.m

Blinded by Rage

2009-12-08T09:04:00.000-08:00

They’ve cheating me, aren’t they?
Those rotting hearts on smiling faces

They’ve cheating me, aren’t they?
Those sleek tongues in wicked minds

The pain oozes out of an innocent face
A ray of trust just blew out

My heart fell, he says
and the word comes back to me, after very many months

In the loss of innocence
In anger
Pain
Helplessness

It matters not what glory you acquire from the world
The finery you use to cloth yourself
The justification you give your deeds
For the grief of a broken heart will condemn you
To that which you can little explain

(Dedicated to those who will understand)

Advertising Cloud 9

2009-06-12T23:55:00.000-07:00

The horizon in shades of green,
Water tanks, blue and black,
Clothes of all hues waving in the breeze.
Cloud 9 advertising its services,
Who would think, it would need to?
But it does,
Its the recession.

Untitled

2009-04-25T21:15:00.000-07:00

oh why does my soul refuse to rest.
it bounds up,
against gravity,
like there were thorns that pricked its underside.
refusing it rest.

oh my soul has a bloody breast
a weary heart
that longs to rest,
but somehow each night is day
in its unending search to run away.

Untitled

2009-04-22T21:52:00.000-07:00

I stare out,
As the orange-pink of sunset
Fades away into silhouettes,
Large dark trees, rise up
And the cold road leads away.

The breeze whips at my face,
The curtains buffeted in the strong wind,
Fly around uncontrollably like shreds,
My heart feels the same,
As it leaves sweet memories behind.

Parting can never be harder.

15th April 2009

Happy Women’s Day?.......... I beg your pardon

2009-03-09T20:20:00.000-07:00

Its 8th March, International Women’s Day
But she doesn’t know it.

She wakes up at 6.00 a.m,
like she has for the last 12 years,
her mental clock and love for her family helps her up.
she fills the rice into the cooker, chops up the vegetables
in the yellow light of the bulb.

The chickens in their coop stir, at the first break of light.
the brass pot rolls down on the squeaky pulley
up will come the sweet fresh water
that will quench her family’s thirst
help cook her food
wash the utensils.
it is this well water that keeps her garden green.

Her girls wake up, and help her cook.
soon they will be around the square table, at breakfast
then rushing to school.
they as students,
she as teacher.

She will sing and prance her students through their rhymes,
she will yell,
to hold the attention of four year olds, a few minutes longer.
she will kiss and hug a child that just tripped over,
reprimand the bully.
she will smile and greet parents,
encourage and guide them.
then head home, in the baking heat of the noon sun.

She will come home to heat the food,
her family will be home soon,
they will sit down to lunch, around the square table.
she will listen to the grumbles of her children,
about school,
about their favourite food not being at the table.
they will ask for more food,
she will interrupt her lunch to get it.
she will listen to the rants of her husband,
all the time, silently chewing on her own.

As she opens the back door,
Brownie their pet dog wags her tail,
delighted, to see her and knowing lunch is at hand.
the chickens rush towards her
she throws them a fist full of rice the children wasted.
the chickens will reward her with eggs,
when the eggs are plenty, she sells them to supplement her family income.

Her extended family fed, she lays down for a brief afternoon nap,
but not without a quick read of the papers.
the opposition protests in Delhi,
they will not let an Italian women become the Prime Minister of this country,
a 19 year old maid has been raped by a masked man,
an unidentified corpse of a women is found floating on the river, the police think it could be suicide.
a day old baby girl has been abandoned in the forest, near the States largest medical college.
she dozes off.

At 4.00 p.m its time to wash the clothes she had soaked earlier.
she has a machine, but prefers the physical labour of scrubbing them by hand
she likes the physical exercise,
it ensures the clothes are clean, the way she likes them.

At 5.00 p.m her daughters will come for tea and biscuits.
after a warm cup of tea, she will sweep the garden,
it is full of dry leaves,
the place will be a mess if it rains before she has cleaned the place.
the soggy leaves will breed mosquitoes.
she lights the little piles of brown
the orange flames lick the leaves, the smoke rises, white
drifts skywards,
God will soon send her parched land rain.

Its getting to be dusk,
she calls home the chickens,
catches and cages them,
secures the bolt.

Sets up the fire and places a large vessel of water on it,
it will soon be time for bath.
she calls out to her daughters,
come home,
its already dark and time for bath.
she never has time to sit with their lessons
but they manage somehow.

She begins preparing dinner,
the girls are hungry.
soon it will be 8 and her husband will be back,
soon after, his nightly rant will begin,
they will eat,
often in silence,
edge away, as the rants continue.

The radio jockey on FM will wish all a ‘Happy Women’s Day’
and play songs by women singers.
she will say her prayers and lay back in her bed.

She needs to rest,
soon it will be 6 a.m
and the dawn of another day.

7th March 09

Un-named

2009-02-08T23:42:00.000-08:00

I want to write
But words
Tremble within me
Then die.

I dig through my memory
For experiences
For verse
But all I find is gooey morass.

I yearn to rise
Be the best
But the force
Eludes me
A phantom.

There they are
The first buds of spring
Or is it a mirage
The sightings of a deluded soul

8th February 2008

Bluer than blue

2009-01-30T04:09:00.000-08:00

More goodbyes coming up this Friday
I look forward to the weekends no more.

Burgers and french fries, ice creams chocolate and vanilla
and smiling sad faces around the table

Lesser Hellos on a blue Monday morn
and the tight blinds encase me in a world of subdued grey

The air conditioner cools the room faster now, chills it
and I hear Joe Cocker sing “With a little help from my friends”

The once large buzzing office goes eerily quiet,
The seats around me empty and cold.

Voices and cheer subdued,
Backaches are back.

It’s an inky blue light that surrounds me,
I stumble, blindfolded into the murky grayness of the economic depression.

Determination

2009-01-08T19:33:00.000-08:00

I have a strong determination
It will get me any where.
My thoughts on wings
Takes me places on earth and heart
It shows me hope I can’t loose.

I have a strong determination
It will get me any where.
My feet travel, ache and all,
To visions unknown

10th September 08

Image from http://www.fs.fed.us/r3/coronado/forest/recreation/rock_climbing/rocks.shtml

Among the Kelp

2009-01-07T00:56:00.000-08:00

I wander
In a kelp forest
Desolate brown
Unsteady in the current.
The oxygen I breath
Rises
To escape
Away from me.

I wander
Unsteady in the current
Lost
Searching for a way
Anxiety raising
Like the escaping oxygen.

I wander
In slow motion
Wide eyed still unfocused
Each moment palpable
I move the kelp
Helter-skelter
Searching for hope

Anxiety raising
Escaping.

3rd January 2009

They are going to burn me

2008-09-08T03:07:00.001-07:00

Oh Heinety, canst I change thy name
So your skin singes with every lick of the hot searing flames,
Cringes,
evaporates,
To the tune of animal cries of deranged rage.
To sightless eyes hungry for blood.
To drugged thoughts craving to crush.
To the joy that comes from seeing pain.

Oh Heinety, thy name is mindless violence,
on an orphan girl,
The dispensable sacrifice.

To read more about the situation in Orissa visit http://orissaburning.blogspot.com/

Most misty Bangalore mornings

2008-07-18T02:43:00.000-07:00

On the right side of the Banaswadi flyover
Runs a road
One side lined with yellow lumps on metal grey
The other, full of throat clearings.

In the soft mist of winter
The shallow putrid gutter flows,
Foul and fetid,
Men with rakes
Make little heaps of plastic and black mush.

Little kids run barefoot
Snorty and naked
playing and nagging
(across the road and along it)
Others sit empting their bowls like others before them
The ladies in green overalls
Bend double
dust pan and broom
collecting heaps, stuffing them into bins
tinkling along
on their push carts.

I race by
Looking for the blue bus ahead
Watching my every step
Not daring to swallow.

6th January 2008

Untitled

2008-07-18T02:31:00.001-07:00

come oh yearning,
live in me,
permanently.
Give me the courage to make you reality.

23rd June 2008

Seeking expression

2008-07-18T02:28:00.000-07:00

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
deep in my inner ear
it vibrates
a scream in a lovely song
a headline on a web page

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in the squint eyes of a scrawny man
in the scent on the air
a wizened old man totters by
a cough in a quite church

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
so I recite the serenity prayer
take a deep breath
sip water
push back the pain in my throat

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
my memories meander on a soothing violent current
jaws clench in determination
a quiet pledge
a loud thanks giving

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
tears in my rice
an instinctive flinch
come fill my nails with grit
let me hold on to the warmth of the dying sun

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in a new borns cry
an empty chair at the table
in that feeling that wont end
In the discomfort of my questions

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
the face contorts in a cry
the familiar texture of a shirt
the blue of mouth wash
yellow marigolds on a grave

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
in the unspoken voice of a strong lady
first fruit of the mango tree
crumbling beams of the wooden room
empty bottles in a dusty cupboard

yesterday I asked myself Why
today the question is a lot Bigger
old pictures in a draw
a scapular and an old watch
come back, oh come back, come back, oh come back
what would I not give to have you back.

20th June 2008

Scarlette Eden Keeling

2008-04-30T03:35:00.000-07:00

On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
Scarred my spirit faltered
Like my feet on soft sand
My skin decorated with intricate patterns of yellow
As drugged intentions
Entered me
High on fantasy.

On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
The salt water floods my nostrils
Calloused hands bite my skin
Blue green red panic plea
While romance slept
Tucked under her down fluff
I became cold meat for breakfast.

On the bohemian beaches of Goa
There I die.
swaying palms, warm waters, blistering suns,
bronzed skins, hookas, trance, textures
Tattoos, morality, colour, corruption, ego.
On the gentle waves of the Arabian sea
Under the ethereal light of the moon
There I set sail for another world.

10th April 2008

Building a memorial for fallen heroes

2008-02-22T21:16:00.000-08:00

Where women fall,

There the grass grows.

Greener for the fertility.

They fall

Acid burnt,

Charred,

Cut to pieces (sometimes cooked),

Beaten,

Bloody,

Diseased,

Violated,

Unloved,

Objectified,

Vilified,

Demonized,

Haunted,

Taunted,

Deluding,

Where women fall,

There the grass grows.

Greener for the fertility.

Disabled femininity

2008-02-22T21:11:00.000-08:00

disfigured bodies

forsaken womanhood,

yet our wombs cry,

tears of blood,

our bellies yearns to swell,

our breasts crave to feed,

our stumpy arms long to caress,

the flesh of our flesh, blood of our blood,

but our femininity is lost among the dark sludge of your morality.

We long for love, to give it,

to feel it grow within,

our mauled bodies refuses to accept us, an afterthought,

so we shred the days and nights to seconds,

grope within the crevices,

and pray to be found,

all we come up with are spirogyra like desires,

leeches that suck the aspirations from our souls,

for our femininity is lost among the dark sludge of your morality.

I wrote this poem after a heard that a severely disabled girl had become pregnant, out of wedlock, and the ruckus this created within her family and an NGO on disability that interacted with her. The sexuality of women with disability is an unaddressed question. Most people believe that women with disability have no right to love or be loved. We fail to realize that a women with physical disabilities is just that, physically disabled, and it does not automatically imply a mental, emotional, spiritual or psychological disability. We, non disabled people do not loose an opportunity to sit in judgment of persons with disability and ram our opinions on them.

Untitled

2008-02-22T20:48:00.000-08:00

I know not what made you,
when,
how.

All I know is I feel the sting,
here,
now.

3rd October 05

Sounds of Silence

2007-12-21T19:44:00.001-08:00

When the sounds of
the night
die out.

It is then that your
heart begins to speak,
the bitter sweet truth
of your reality

November 2007

Sounds of Silence

2007-12-21T19:40:00.000-08:00

When the sounds of
the night
die out.

It is then that your
heart begins to speak,
the bitter sweet truth
of your reality

November 2007

Che

2007-08-24T21:26:00.000-07:00

Che stares back at me,
Through the reflection of the mirror.
The face strong,
The soulful eyes, intent,
Upon the future.
Che, just where are you?
In Bolivia?
In Mexico?
In Cuba?
In Nepal?
In India?
On your chest,
In your heart,
In your spirit,
In your dreams.
He answers back

-written on-
6/10/04
7.20 p.m

Water and a Tsunami

2007-08-24T21:20:00.000-07:00

Like a giant falling,
The earth lost its step.
Ten meters down the ocean floor fell.
For thousands of kilometers a brutal jagged incision.
The earth revolted as if hit in the solar plexus,
Its three stories high waves, worse than killer whales.
From our shanties Oh Sea Goddess,
We worshipped you,
The matriarch you presided over our lives,
Like children we lived of your bounties.
Why then did you avenge against your own.
Those who pollute your womb with oil and tar,
You have not harmed.
Who, in distant lands, insatiably feast on your jeweled fish,
pearls and coral,
You have made wealthy.
Who channel their toxic effluents and plastic into your home,
You have shielded, by distance.
For, those who produce carbon dioxide and raise your temperature,
You have forgiven,
For those who plan development projects (of oil prospecting and ports)
Along your shore,
Their sins you have ignored,
For those who test their nuclear weapons in your atolls,
You have made powerful.
It was my low roof home you swept way.
My little wooden boat, bought on a loan.
My seven months old baby girl, whom I hoped would be a doctor.
It was my community of humble poor your smothered.
I see you colluded with the Elite Gods of the Earth,
Who have pushed us to the fringes of their existence,
To live on shifting sands,
So they may easily erase the dispensable me.
Oh Mother Sea,
Your even hand of justice I do not see.
-written on-

28th December '04

7.00 a.m

In a cast

2007-08-24T21:01:00.000-07:00

I was tightly trapped in a gilded cast.
Suffocating, within its confines.
Submerged, deep in the dark sea.
Now the cast has cracked.
And I shake vigorously.
Knowing, it will come loose.
And I shall go
Up,
Kicking my feet gently,
Back and forth.
Up
Up
Up
Till I finally break the surface.
Looking into the blue of the unreachable sky,
I shall take in a
Long,
Deep,
Sweet
Breath of life.

-written on-
2.30 p.m
15/11/04

BLOOD STAINED CLAWS

2007-08-24T20:58:00.000-07:00

My mind is like a huge canvas,
Ripped
And fluttering in the breeze.
How, can I mother a child.
And not pass on my inherent suspicion,
towards men.
How, can I trust the child I have mothered,
With her uncle, cousin or my friend.
I cower in the face of lust,
Streaked with strains of disrespect and hatred.
Strains that like dormant rabies,
To surface,
As irreversible action.
How, can I mother a child,
And she not feel this deep distrust.
This unease,
Towards a probable perverted mind,
Lurking in a smile,
In an ugly touch,
In an ugly thought.
How can I mother a child
And not want to protect her,
To shield her,
From a scheming distorted mind.
How can I mother a child,
With my overbearing fears, creeping into actions.
And still assure her a free, innocent life.
Seeing the silent anguish in my eyes,
How can she laugh with abandon,
How can she frolic with fun,
How can she grow and be a gift to heal.
I do not know.
And should a smelly, contorted face,
Say unheard words to her.
rough calloused fingers,
Mar her innocence,
With an ugly probe.
How then shall I respond.
Should I want to
Swipe him into oblivion,
I shall be stigmatized a murderer.
but that will hardly
return the cheerful giggle to my girls face.
It will hardly dim the memory
Of a betrayed trust.
How then should I respond.
I do not know.

-written on-
26th February '03
10.10. a.m

IFFI

2007-08-24T20:54:00.000-07:00

Walking along newly cobbled,
Luxuriously broad sidewalks,
Lined with gardens and fairy lights,
The gentle lap of the Mandovi (river),
Interrupted, only by a tiny gush of sewage through a storm drain.
Three girls on a parapet,
Admiring the moon.
“Move off” this is a ‘no smoking’ zone, commanded the security,
threateningly waving his long wooden batten.
The streets, filled with the sounds of people,
Strolling by in masses.
Stopping to hear the Gazals and Hindi film music,
Admiring the props and the artificial Tulas,
Gazing at paintings in makeshift art galleries,
Buying Bacardi Breeze and
Hankering over the price of handicrafts.
Old arches, solid lime walls and worn out steps,
All painted and new. Yellow on yellow.
Orchids and glass fronts,
Film posters and neon lights,
The false voice of a singer and the fake twang of the MC.
A flashy red lancer displayed as a prize,
Chief Minister Parrikar discussing unimportant issues
And Francis D’Souza, unrecognized, unaccompanied,
Self consciously walks by.
On smooth floors, thro’ dark corridors
And chilly theaters,
After a hard days work,
I’m staring at the giant screen in front,
trying to make sense of ‘the missing’.
Acquaintances greet each other warmly,
Smart executives, traditional house wife’s, smart ass youth,
College kids, children on a leash, unknown directors and producers,
Rub shoulders.
“I wish I could be one of them, even for a day” says Shreta.
“you are one of them. Faceless in a crowd” I say.
Saris strung high,
Fly hither titter in the tangy breeze,
Thousands of people stomping on the beach,
A giant screen shows “Mission Impossible”
And no one cares to understand a word.
Vehicles zooming by,
unfamiliar faces poke out of car windows,
Kala Academy?
Miramar?
The place swarming with cops
And the CRPF with sten guns.
Chokker Bali, Vanity Fair and The Motorcycle Diaries,
All under one roof.
Lad-ies and gentle-men,
Put you-r hand-s to-gether and wel-c-o-m-e
The 35th International Film Festival Of India Goa 2-0-0-4
Being held from the 20th of November to 9th December.
Let your body swing to the vibrations of con-sume-rism,
Let your feet tap to the jingle of cap-ital-ism,
Fine tune your tastes to cultural imperialism,
And finally a big welcome to all of you, to the land of
Lulled social consciousness.

-written on-
3/12/04
6.55 a.m

I am a women and I am beginning to feel uneasy about it

2007-08-24T20:51:00.000-07:00

I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I hesitate to leave the office door unguarded when I’m alone,
Or keep the window open.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I lock the door to my veranda,
Unsure about the boys next door.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
My mother worries herself when I’m late,
And badgers me to be home before dark.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
So I rush down for the 6.45 p.m bus home.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I listen carefully when a man compliments about my looks,
Wondering if he’s being corny.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
I feel uneasy when strange me ogle at me on the street.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
Whenever I visit a public toilet,
there is a lurking fear of being attacked.
I am a women,
And that makes me feel unsafe.
Even though I am supposed to be 48% of the population.
I’m not as rare as a tiger,
That you can sell every part of me and make a killing.
I’m as common as a crow,
And commonality does not ensure security.
I am an object,
That can be sexually gratifying.
And a growing number of men, just cant keep their semen inside them.

-written on-
10/3/04

9.30 a.m

The Death Penalty

2007-08-24T20:50:00.000-07:00

So just who are you Mr. Judge?
And just who are you Mr. President?
Who made you the Honorable Judge?
Who made you the Honorable President?
In My Democracy.
Was it my vote?!
So just how much did you know, 14 year old Hetal Parekh, Mr Judge?
(just so we know how much you felt for her)
And just how much did you know, Dhananjoy Chatterjee?
The same questions to you to Mr. President.
In what judgement did you sit Mr. Judge?
Was it legal, was it moral?
Of whom do you make an example off
and for whom?
Did you give life to Hetal Parekh, Mr. Judge?
Did you give life to Dhananjoy Chatterjee.
Maybe you did Mr. President?.
Did you?
What is ‘life’, to you Mr. Judge?
And when does it become precious, Mr. President?
Whom did you hang, when 15,310 people suffocated to death in Bhopal and 3,00,000 were maimed by Union Carbide?
How many people did you hang when the Children of Kumbakonam roasted in their school?
Where did you hang the officials, who rotted grain and caused starvation deaths in Orissa, Rajasthan, Maharashtra and in other states of India?
Why didn’t you hang the politicians of Andhra Pradesh and Maharashtra who’s ‘politics’ have caused scores of debt ridden farmers to kill themselves?
And whom do we hang for the destruction the nuclear tests have brought, on a poor tribal community in Rajasthan?
So just who are you Mr. Judge?
And just who are you Mr. President?
Who made you Judge?
Who made you President?
In my democracy.
Was it my vote?!

-written on-
14th September ‘04
10.45 a.m

The Fangs of Creativity

2007-08-24T20:49:00.000-07:00

Creativity, pressed its two fangs,
Lightly upon my shoulders and pushed.
I did not move.
The fangs threatened to pierce,
And it pushed a little harder.
I did not move.
The pressure on my shoulders grew
A little harder
And my mind shook.
More pressure,
Strong and steady
My confidence shook.
The fangs pierced the first thin layer of skin
And the push grew harder,
My body swayed,
First by a millimeter, then by an inch,
And my step fell, backwards,
Harder and harder it pushed,
Step by step, backwards I went.
Until I felt the smooth, unyielding wall behind me.
Move, it commanded,
With a growl that resonated from deep within its diaphragm.

-written on-
1/12/04
8.45 p.m

Shift the ‘Centre’ of the terms of discourse East

2007-08-24T20:47:00.000-07:00

Where would I be without the Portuguese?
And where would you be without the British?

Yes, what about Imperialism and Colonialism?

Aren’t those the words and concepts foisted on us?,
By the Imperialists and Colonialists themselves.

Where would you be without their definitions?

-written on
6th September '04
8.30 p.m

The children of Kumbakonam

2007-08-24T20:45:00.000-07:00

Thousands of children die per day in this country from mal-nutrition
and preventable diseases,
so why do you cry for me?
We were just 90 among the billion,
You could (easily) have 90 more,
why do you cry for me?
Lakhs of children like me roam the streets, collecting garbage,
Getting whipped and brutalized by the police and strangers,
So why do you cry for me?
Multitudes of children like me,
Work in brick kilns, making carpet, weaving, making bangle,
and the fire cracker industry.
Die maimed, a shortened life and a painful death,
So why do you cry for me?
Lahks of children before me and countless after me,
will have their dreams and hopes and emotions, trampled and charred,
Like our bodies in Kumbakonam,
So why only do you cry for me?
Don’t make an exhibition of me.
I don’t want Mrs Sonia Gandhi sanctioning one crore for our families,
I don’t want Tamil Nadu to order all schools to change their thatched roofs,
excuses, to sanction money that never reaches the poor like me,
excuses to buy the pain in my mothers breast, she cant produce another me.
I don’t understand this country,
That cares not for its little people,
Who will siphon money meant for the education and health of their young citizens?
Who will inject fake medicines and choke them to death,
Who will sit in their AC rooms, not breath the air I breathe, not hear the cries I hear, not eat the worms I eat, and nonchalantly plan my future?
I don’t think I want to be born in this country again.

-written on-
21st July 04
9.53 a.m

Awaiting doom

2007-08-24T20:42:00.000-07:00

The sun sets and I shiver,
The nocturnal beasts of life,
Come alive.
Take deep breaths, puffing out their chests.
Ready to work.

The strength drains out of my limbs.
A drooping plant in the sweltering heat of summer,
limp,
Waiting for the propagator of doom to descend
upon me,
One more conquered.

4th May 1999

Women

2007-08-24T20:38:00.000-07:00

Women
Half the population,
Whose soul is buried in delicate limbs and soft lush hair.
She is the beautiful creature,
Tamed, around the same time as the dog,
The milch cow,
To every society,
The shadow in every home,
The ghost, in every mans life.

24th April 1999

The mind is in a whirl.

2007-06-30T00:37:00.000-07:00

The mind is in a whirl.

The choices are many.
Their consequences, far reaching.

Should I put the self before the world.
Should I put the ‘common good’ before the self.
Will I live to regret the choices I make.

I dive deep, unto my fountainhead.
To pray, to the gods of courage and wisdom.

Lead me,
even though the end of the road, I do not see.
Let me learn from each trial of life.

And in the serene coolness of purity,
There are no answers.
Just strength,
Strength,
And more strength.

12th January 2005
10.12. a.m

On the eighth day

2007-06-30T00:30:00.000-07:00

On the eighth day,
The Lord awoke,
Stretched his mouth in a huge yawn,
Swept a lazy hand over his unruly beard,
And walked about aimlessly,
“Now,
How shall I occupy myself ?”

So he stretch out his hands,
towards the sky,
Rolled up his eyes
And thundered,
Let there be men,
And P-o-o-o-o-f
Went the toad stool
And then there was me.

-written on -
14-2-05
4.25 p.m

This poem is about ‘myths’. How many myths can you locate in the above lines!!.

Unnamed

2007-06-30T00:09:00.001-07:00

They hurtled down,
an army of the countless,
crashed their heads with a tiny plop,
their transparent brains,
flowing down the shiny corrugated tin roof,
gathering in volume,
in a semi circular plastic channel
poured themselves into a hole in the ground.

they call this rain water harvesting.

- written on-
31st July ‘05
5.00 p.m

The Bomb

2007-06-29T23:53:00.000-07:00

Uncle Abdul*,
said a little girl,
“I want a reason to be proud of my country”,
and so we made the Bomb.

Vajpayeeji,
said a party worker,
“I need to prove my mardangi (manhood)”,
and so we made the Bomb.

“They are killing us in our mothers’ womb”,
said a dark skinned tribal from Jadugoda.
“You are not are target”, said Iyenagar**
“The Chinese borders have come to close”.

“My dear Indian brothers and sisters,
you don’t want to live to feel your skin melt,
or search for your parents bones among rubble and ashes”
said a survivor from Hiroshima.
But you look, to find 30,000 bombs now lying around.

“So India has gone nuclear”,
inquired Saint Peter ***
yeah, said the rabbit,
now just watch the fission.

This poem was written after I watched the documentary ‘War and Peace” by Anand Patwardhan. The poem is pertinent as we inch towards 6th and 8th August, Hiroshima and Nagasaki Day. A time when we need to renew the discussion and debate about nuclear weapons and how their very presence is endangering our planet, and I dread to think about the consequences should they be used a second time.

* Abdul Kalam, the President of India.
** Iyenagar is a prominent Indian nuclear scientist
*** Saint Peter is a Catholic saint who is mythically believed to be the gatekeeper of heaven

-written on-
4th August ‘05
12.45 p.m