The Masks
Like
a pack of cards scattered,
rolling
on the street by wind,
they
are moving around, drugged,
with
kids on their hips, stolen
from
their real mothers. The babies
stopped
crying for their moms and
dads.
Their tears dried and noses
leak.
Maybe they too are drugged!
They
are everywhere among the crowd,
in
markets, junctions, temple gates …
A
man with hanging legs being carried
to
the market gate, placed on dirty rugs;
Stretching
his hands out the whole day
he
calls all - mother, father, sister, brother …
-
but in vain. They take him back when
the
market is empty. Clowns indeed, all
these,
forced to wear the mask the whole
day,
without or hiding the thought of self,
and
in nights curl in the dark corners,
obviously
travelling in oblivion,
some
by the roadside, keeping the head on
heaps
of waste, among rats and dogs.
We
don’t see anymore, anything but see
only
the possibility of making space for us
to
move ahead in the crowd; don’t hear
anything
but only that within our heads.
We
are this world and use these clowns
for
a tool to make money and shout
and
preach whole day the philosophy
of
staying in happiness and in peace,
wearing
a mask to cover the hypocrisy.
Or
are we (you and I) and they, each a different
world,
unknown to each other but
destined
to pass by every now and then?
Rainbow
She
stands suspended up at some
Nowhere
place, gathering herself,
Colourless,
transparent.
He
slits her asunder, into
Seven
colours, (calls them
Different
names,) then into
Another
million in bet’n them.
Ah!
It is true that everything
Has
to come out of something,
Even
if it is from nowhere.
Or,
how come he makes a rainbow
Out
of her nothingness!
Taste of Blue
A
moonlit night I stared at
The
sky through the finger-gaps that
Stretched
towards my eyes, of long
Silhouette
coconut fronds;
The
blue tasted misty and soft.
A
sunny day I searched your
Eyes,
the oceans, skies and more,
Through
the cracks of your words,
(like
flat, fat and dull white birds);
The
blue tasted salty and cold.
The
blue with orange of kingfisher, or
The
blue with green of morning glory-
Tastes
the sublime love of nature.
When
we started to paint the sky
Brown
and the ocean water black?
They
taste sticky and cold death.
Xenophobia
This
place is of death, and I
Belong
to anywhere else.
In
my place lives dress in many
Shades,
from infant to old age.
There,
the death is only a visitor.
Occasionally
it may lure some to go
With
it, and they never return.
Here,
in this place, lives spend in cages.
They
sit, stand, eat, and wait to die.
Some
come out of eggs, and some from
Mothers
whom they never see again.
Some
have two legs/wings and others four,
Yet
no use; they don’t know what is
Life
in infancy, childhood, teenage,
Youth,
middle age, and old age.
They
eat and drink whatever they get,
They
don’t know any other tastes
Like
a worm or fly from among the bush,
A
different vine, or fresh grass,
Or
occasionally a long-bean’s vine,
Or
banana skin or jack fruit leftover
As
the grandmothers of our place
Give
them every other day or river water.
To
grow fatty and fast to death
They
were given extra magic potions
Through
injections or through food.
They
don’t have any feelings; they just
Don’t
cry as it happens in our place
When
a calf is gone astray.
For
them life is monotonous, no
Childhood
nor motherhood,
No
illness nor recovery.
Their
wings are never opened.
They
never get wet in rain nor
See
the sun rises and sets,
As
in my place where the cows moo
Either
to go out to the meadow in sun rise
Or
to go home before dark, to their clean sheds.
This
is the land of death and I fear
To
come here and hate to stay.
If
you live here it is either to kill or die,
But
I am not for both.
The Connecting Dot
Yore
the fort stands
from another era
kissing
the pale cheek
of horizon.
The
road towards it
lays bare skinned
with
scars and stains
from mindless travellers;
clean
or dirty – who cares
what is that under their feet!
Wearing
the rainbow
from their dreams
two
legged or four legged
(or leg-less) tread it,
hoping
to reach, again, back
to the fort of a golden era.
Now
there are no wars
out there
but
inside all brains
with weapons of more precision.
The
tree, trying to stand
witness, for centuries,
as
a connecting dot,
has
twisted branches,
crossed and twirled,
with
many a knot
along their lengths.
Wearing
the rainbow
from their dreams
still
so many sell and buy
their moments
under
its vast shade.
Voices Within - Complete List of Poets :: Setu, January 2019
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