Poetic Smorgasbord
| 2 poems by Shub Atpug The Fall (inspired 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 A 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, inflicted, a garnished coloration A forthcoming end, irreversible, unrecoverable, imminent, inviting, dire, veiled in obscurity Cumbersome, yet, shedding weight, falling apart, anatomizing even in, the coming stillness Fallen, beaten, tormented, tired, relegated to plain death, restless, futile not facetious, stripped of an identity, that had once - once upon a time, been. |  |
The Game (based 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, inflamed, 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, confounded, 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, still, 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 cement 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 |
No comments:
Post a Comment