Friday, 18 March 2011

Poetic Smorgasbord - Apr 2011

Poetic Smorgasbord

poems by Shub Atpug


by the ‘Fall’en view at Smoky Mountains, November - 2010)

The leaves, dulled,
senescence setting in,
the lascivious virginity,
of an osculant freshness,
now prompted by,
an inculpated withering,    
and here comes the Fall
The incommensurable hues,
parting ways to meet,
in the wilderness,
of detaching lives,
specks of a fading life,
drying veins,
like ribs of a famine,
bereft of an idea of,
hope lurking death,
that stoves,
the Nadir of a loss
A loss that’s the end,
the slow fumigation,
of life,
of cells living,
to be obliterated,
an obfuscation, as if routine,
not a facile function,
but, withan ensnaring martyrdom,
a garnished coloration
A forthcoming end,
veiled in 
shedding weight,
falling apart,
anatomizing even in,
the coming stillness
to plain death,
futile not facetious,
stripped of an identity,
that had once -
once upon a time,

on one of the biggest and most cruel genocides in human history – the Bhopal
Gas Tragedy)

In the midst,
of the jackal-laden night,
the world was silent,
it was dead,
men cramped, fallen,
holding their throats,
trying to get up,
and rush out,
the whisper of the burnings,
pumping their heart,
un-clogging the face,
and skin,
bulging eyes reddened,
a slight breath,
meant some weren't still dead.

The obnoxious predicament,
ensued with a helpless stare,
mothers carried,
their babies, clueless,
inert as to fathom the happening,
a pandemonium,
so consistent now,
a comatose of absolute entropy,
everyone looked around,
all having, baring naked,
their blighted trauma to share.

Those who ran farthest,
from the house,
weren't getting too far,
before they fell,
suffocation stifled the best of them,
hindering bodies,
the fertile cruelty,
even as the devious hands,
of the Satan,
lay siege on the beings,
of common men,
wobbly, charred faces,
devoid of teeth,
and empty sockets,
mutilated, blue hands, feet.

Some jumped into ditches,
little knowing,
the water was infected,
with particles – beast-like,
gurgling raw blood,
as Death stared on their faces -
inviting them,
with arms open,
like a free-wheeling host,
the deft of hand, the dupe,
as people lay motionless,
numb and cold,
as if it was all in the game.

2 poems by Sunil Narayan

Treasured Place

Tomorrow is a new day…something to breathe and exhale
Cold air stings my nostrils
Polished Mercedes Benzes fill the streets
Winter is the bastardly time of the year!

Rich people collect their checks to deposit in overflowing accounts
Smiling while the poor ones are pulling their hair out when
the teller delivers stroke-inducing news
Death killed our nation’s holidays to give poor people a scare
He has a funny sense of humor, though don’t we all?

Kids playing their handheld videogame toys for hours on park benches
God! They’re so detached from reality!
It’s a gloomy day and no one seems to notice
Coffee spills onto their laps so the world must be falling apart

Big globs of blood hits the street, cracking decades old weak cement
An ocean filled with starved-to-death corpses floods the town
Soldiers swim to find gold rings on married couples
To sell on EBay for hundreds of dollars

A child cannot grasp what the world looks like anymore
His joy trampled by a clumsy accountant
An issue I find quite silly though at his age I would be crying hysterically too
Perhaps this month is my reminder of what I am allowed to be once a year

Perfectly safe and pleased with my life
I may not have pretty cars, expensive jewelry or the videogames grownups seem to never let go of
However, I have my love for sharing with the world lessons they wish they had learned
in youth 
A sentence of wisdom is a pearl to them

 Random Thought

Tomorrow is a new day….something to breathe and exhale
Cold air stings my nostrils and cars honk for no apparent reason
Winter is the bastardly time of the year!
Kids playing with their toys in the city
God, they’re so dumb!
It’s winter and no one seems to notice
Coffee spills onto their laps and the world’s falling apart
Big globs of blood hits the street, cracking decades old weak
You know the person screaming rape is just another white girl
playing a prank
Nancy Grace is no stranger to being whiney and a “victim”
It’s a bad year to talk to me but yet again, every year is a bad
year to talk to me
Call me when God bangs me at the end of finals week

Sunil's work has been a long, enriching journey that absorbed the world's eccentricities to create a masterpiece of color, surrealism and
human emotion. 
The past two years witnessed a climactic moment in which his writing churned out emotionally-inducing poems. 
It is his intent to help people access feelings they rarely get to experience.

Indira Bebellapati

Let the body speak
Do you know
that this ancient body
longs to speak
devoid of niceties
bereft of metaphors
the only language it knows-
the language of
agony and ecstasy
when desire strikes with
the intensity of a boomerang
hurled eons ago when
we roamed the Earth?
…It’s the same
unsettling feeling
then and now too...
and when the body
begins to speak
scrawling its unique alphabet
without guilt
without frills
there arises one single
moan of ecstasy
in its pristine form
paralyzing yet vibrating
through the entwined
limbs and nerves
it strikes the frozen darkness
till then lying fossiled within
the inner walls with the
sublimity and alacrity of
a lightning…
For once
for one fleeting moment
though within the other’s grasp
your body and mine
go beyond us as
each nuance tickles us in
an ecstatic joy… 

Trancreated  from
Rabindranath Tagore’s Bengali by Romantix

When my footsteps fall on this road no more

When my footsteps fall on this road no more
I will ferry not, my boat on this pier
End buy and sell, settle all dues
Come and go no more to this mart
Then recall me whether or not
Gazing at stars, call me or not.

When dust accumulates
On strings of Tanpura*
When barbed fences of vines 
Creep up doorways of home
When flower garden adorns 
Ascetic robes of dense green grass
When moss surrounds the pond 
Then recall me whether or not
Gazing at stars, call me or not.

Then will the flute still sing thus in this play
Days will pass, day after day
Just the way it does today
Ferryboats will fill up that day
Piers full in the very same way
In that field, cows will graze, cowherds will play
Then recall me whether or not
Gazing at stars, call me or not.

Who says then, I am no more, in that morning
In all play, this self will play
Will call me with a new name
Entangle in new embrace
Come and go I will, 
This self that is eternal
Then recall me whether or not
Gazing at stars, call me or not

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