Came the reply,
Poetry is songs,
Sing you.
Songs from
The heart,
Songs from
The soul
And you singing it.
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My God,
Am I here to see,See Spain as thus,Corpses being bundled and taken away,Ambulances waiting forThe patients to be admitted,To be taken away,But how,How to bear the load,My Lord,Lord,It is agonizing, anguishingTo seeSo many seriously ill,Affected withTo survive the infection?
Communist boss,
A red saluteWith inquilab zindabad,Long live revolution!
I see, see a beauty,
With a guitar,GuitarStrumming,StrummingThe wires,Wiresplucking,Plucking them beautifully.Yeah,Yeah, a young beauty,Lovely and golden,Smiling and cheerfulSinging,Singing the songAnd strumming,Strumming the guitarA blonde,BlondeSo golden and cheerful.
Away, far away from the Brahmins and Brahminism
Want I to go, goAway, away fromTo get rid of the excessesMisleading to unnecessary ritualsAnd make-believe superstitionsWhose base not in logic.
Keshav has something of an artist
And was tooAnd so is his poetry,With the echoes of modern art.A formerly editor of Indian Literature from Sahitya AkademiAnd the literary editor of Thought,He has authored quite a fewTo register his presence, to make it feelInto the domain of modern Indian English poetry.The Lake Surface and Other Poems, Rippled Shadow,Poems C, Negatives, Shapes in…
Time, your bulldozer
History’s Haunted Houses.