Alike
---Sunil Sharma
In
the thick rain,
A
thin dog,
And
A dirty beggar,
Getting
drenched,
Dripping
water,
Due
to a lack of A sheltering tree,
A
welcoming porch,
In
the ugly Urban jungle!
Plath is dead!
The
weaver of words
Dead…finally!
Depressing:
To
be a writer
In
this cynical age.
Gangsters
gotta
More
clout!
You
suffer the
Slings
of fate
Get
lacerated
Wounds
do not heal
And
fester;
Keats,
Shelley,
Woolf,
Hemingway,
Endless
list!
Words
no longer
Mean
what
They
once meant,
Profane
is sacred,
Porn
is stale,
Lusts
un-satiated,
Dolls,
Dons,
Molls,
More
Erotic;
Dollars
are
Real
Turn-on!
Who
cares?
Discounted
words,
Mere
arbitrary
Lexical
arrangements,
Horizontal/vertical,
Displayed
by the neo-rich
For
garnering respectability,
In
this philistine age!
Citizens and the winter rains
Tender
and shimmering,
The
winter morning rains,
Sudden—fierce,
In
Delhi,
Against
a baby sun,
Smiling
pale-faced,
In
the grey sky,
Buffeted
by the
Cold
winds,
Rains,
heavy
Rays,
weak,
Blended
well,
An
impressionistic painting,
Made
by divine hands,
And
beating down,
Furious,
Upon
the homeless,
Couple
cowering,
Under
the green plastic
Sheet
held up,
By
a pair of the
Quivering,
Gnarled
hands,
On
the manicured
Lawns
of the imposing
India
Gate;
Fancy
cars
Glide
by,
Oblivious
to the
Presence
of
Two
doddering citizens
Of
the Republic,
Huddled
together,
In
the gathering,
Slow
mist.
