The credo and anthology
Of modernism
In Indian English poetry?
Are they poets or poetasters
Or even not,
The versifiers,
The writers of broken verse
The English poets of Indian English not
But the vernacular men
Trying to write in English
For a wider platform?
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O, the maiden with a pair of blue eyes,
how the dream of ours,how the living of the people?
What is in post-colonialism?
Why did they colonize?Who the colonizers?
Tumhe Dekh Jo Eisa Lagaa
Mei dekh rahaa hunEk saada beli phul ko,Rajanigandha koYaa kamini thok koTumhe dekh eisa lagaa,Eisa lagaaKi dekh raha raha hunSadabhahar phulo koDudhantaa unki khusbuyon ko.After Looking You It Seemed To As SuchAfter looking you it seemed to as suchI am lookingA white belli bloom,RajanigandhaOr kaamini bunchAfter looking you it seemed as such,seemed as suchThat I…
Under the moonlit nights
On the terracotta platesEmbossed upon the outer pillarsOf the terracotta temples,Made from limestone powder and small bricks.I see the figurines and sculptures in love and romance,In devotion and prayer,Symbolizing dharma-artha-kama-and-moksha syndromeAnd also the masons and architectsWho made buit remained anonymousAnd the purpose behind the art.Sometimes they taking me to the semi-divine beings,Yoga-yoginis,The aboriginal maids testing…
The Land of Siva,
Want I to meditateAnd get lostIn sadhna,Reciting,Hari Om,Hari Om,Om, Om,Hari, Hari,hari Om, Hari Om,Hari, Hari,Om, Om.
The girl trafficked, sold and re-sold
Dragged and drawn into,Promised of, lured with and trafficked and sold and re-soldAs for to be purchased and re-purchased,Have you,Have you thought about her,Give at least some thoughts to her,Before call you yourself the proud masterOf your cemented mansion?That girl, innocent and unprivileged, have you,Have you thought of her,The days spent in poverty,She forsaking itTo…
Eve if it was,
Why did they not get
Their oral stock translated?
English poetry from the northeast
Is not indigenous oral stuff,
But poetry written by
The novice upcoming writers.
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Italy,
I can see it,But why do they not sendTheir medical teamsAs for suffering mankind,Ca they not came forwardTo help ItalyIn trouble?The virus has spread,Patients lie in numbersAttended, unattended,Houses taking a deserted look,Hospitals full with,Beds are difficult to find,Many dying at homeAnd even the deadLying unvisited, unattended.O Lord, where are You,Have pity, have pityUpon them,Have, have…
Mahalaya
Devi Mahatmyam,The Glory of the Deity,Ten-armed Bhagabati deity.Early morning beginningWith the chanting of the Chandipatha,Mantras from DurgasaptasatiSo linguistic, so syllabic.
Romantically yours,
Only yours.
Okara, whose is the piano
And what do you like to play withThe piano or the drums?Perhaps the African drumsMaking the panthers flee,Fishes and animalsAnd the ghosts and spirits dance.With the beats and dancesOf your fellow people,Dancing and singing in the forests,Feeling joy of Nature, pristine world.Whom will it not charm the hamlet homes,The hills, vales and woods,The rivers and…
The leftists are the plotters and hackers,
The great strategistsPlotting for falls and hatching plotsFor conspiracies.Ever ready to split society in betweenThe haves and the have-nots,The rich and the poor,The landless and the landowning,The exploits and the exploited,But who is what can say it?They promise to give power to the proletariatBut power lies it with the bourgeoisie,Teh middle class people hold in…
My English
Not British English,It is Hindustani English,Hindustani,Indian English,Pidgin-Indian EnglishBut without a feeder dialect of own.
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Before Bismillah?
There were definitely
And they played in the durbars
Of the rajahs,
The courts of kings
And on marriage occasions.
My point,
There was definitely a tradition,
The temples used to sound and re-sound
With the shehnoi music.
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Jhumur,
I too swayed,Swayed and dancedTo the beatsOf traditionalDrum music.Jhumur,Jhumur songAs such the rhythm,BeatThat it making you dance,Compelling youTo shakeThe feet.
Call me not a poet,
There will be after me.Some have definitely got the talent,Which I can see it,But they write not.
I saw lively
Saraswati,Kartika, Ganesha,Brahma, Biswakarma,Mahishasura,The lion, the rat,The owl, the peacock.The masked artistesHistrionic, theatrical,Masked and acrobatic,Rural and rusticBut performing,Performing to delightSo charming and lovely,Spectacular and pleasantBring the scenery divine,Supernatural and celestial,Mythical and mystical,So interesting and spectacularTo this earth of menRehearsing with the maskAnd tales fabulous.
Is first of all autobiographical,
Recording the the impressions and sensationsFelt in lovePhysical and bodily,A lover of the bodyNot the soulWith strange meetings describedIn the magical of loveWith lucid wordsNever so expressed, said soAnnihilating the moraleThat boosts up,Decaying the load and monotonyOf rampant intellectualization,Industrialization.A lover of womenHe is after love, sex and dreams,Glued to,An admirer ofAppleyish cheeks and luscious lipsAnd…
I do not want to write verses,
To my Burquawalli, to my Purdahwalli,Doing not purdah from me,I kissing my Burquawalli.I do not want to verses anymore,I want to write love-lettersTo the daughter of Mr.Fanatic.
When I see the ancient temples of India
And sculptural beauty,Cut out in rock design,Chiselled and hewed outOf the large chunks of stoneOr hills converted into,I feel baffled to speak of the written words,Which the petty poets pride over.The embroidery work done in stone,Flowers carved out of stone,Designed and modelled,No less than poetry,As and when we glimpse overThose temples of grand historical past,Which…