Millenarianism

the political establishes its credo well

so does the economic and the cultural

 

reprehensible personalities ruling and set to rule

going Greek and not Dutch and a new film star each day

 

is the social set for a revamp?

one would never know

 

atleast the religious says so!

To The One

In My Life

Who hasn’t shown up yet

 

When you descend

will the sun be rising at dusk

and setting at dawn?

 

When you speak

will the waterfall sound abstruse

while the wind is on?

 

When you walk

will the lion look stuck

while the jungle looks on?

 

When you listen

will the pigeon seem indifferent

while the man talks on?

 

When you dress up

will the lotus not envy

while the roses flaunt on?

 

When you leisure it out

will all of my friends not notice

while you conquer on?

 

 

In the Garden

Wretched marigolds

peeved at the rudeness of the garden turned yellow

Silly roses

angered at the heat of women burning red

Despicable tulips

shrunk at the thought of men going lean

Pitiful daffodils

laughing unamused at clouds gone berserk!

Poets

A poem is a cover up

It conceals more than what it reveals

What is significant in a life truly lived is the thing that poetry can only pretend to represent.

Poems are an easy way out of the smoulderings of the soul

Never trust a poet.

Poets are brave and very stupidly so

They calculate aesthetic merits and leave harshness of life unfettered.

Being Caged

You would know if you have spent a night all by yourself in the countryside. How the dampening moonlight quivers around the eyes while delivering to the ears packets of rhythmic noise from a wedding party on miles away. In the lonely sheet of helplessness where you lay uneasy, these parcels recreate the many weddings you have been to in the past. So, the groom must have arrived and his feet must have already been washed. The guests must be feasting somewhere close by. The band must still be playing for the over enthusiastic friends of the groom. One of these would shake a leg to the whiskey in his head. The percussion strikes all too gently for its intensity and its distance. Listening to it you relish the charm of being by yourself. Loony bird nights.

Feels like a street say from somewhere in a dusty town, The sun has set. The street is fast emptying while you continue staring at it from the street side bench. Chill sets in quietly and the hands reach for the warmth of the trouser pockets. You wish that the town permitted you a night out on the street without anyone questioning or offering shelter. You wish one of the home-bound vendors could take you along for a meal and his biography. Tales of his white female buyers would be delicious dessert. The vendors leave, the bench begins to hurt and you get up only to find a reason to go back. To that pending assignment or to that regular TV show.

You are awake on a rainy midnight and are in a hotel room close to the sea. Sleepless and aroused you think of the book to read, Turn a leaf and dream aloud yet again. A sea is so much about life and warmth. Yet you don’t have access to any of it. May be because you don’t belong. But the scene from the window tells me that the ones who belong too are leaving for their huts. Their baskets and stands rolled up in one. Who does the sea belong to then if it has to spend the night on its own. May be I am only being jealous of people who don’t really own the things I am now yearning to own. Doesn’t everyone go to sleep night after night? Leaving the groom and the bride, the dust and the bench, the hotel and the beach-all to themselves?