Death of a Princess
Transparent, on top of a knoll
she stood the most famous woman
in the western world.
She tried to get down, could not
addicted to fame she had become.
Lightning struck, a torn newspaper
creation.
Ten million flowers sacrificed.
Her brother built her a shrine, in
the middle of a man-made lake,
pay the entrance fee and you just
might, on a clear day, see her shadow
walk on water.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
थे तेर्रोर
The Terror
Looking out the day was dazzling with deep shadows
in corners and under dead street lamps.
Reticent lips exploded, gave birth to a scream which
shattered the forenoon, only white heat remained.
Window glass dripped, became a petrified lake where
fish eyes glared as the day was pushed down the abyss
of night. Black, shiny boots trampled all to fragments,
but the fiend’s eye was forever glued to the inside of
my mind.
Looking out the day was dazzling with deep shadows
in corners and under dead street lamps.
Reticent lips exploded, gave birth to a scream which
shattered the forenoon, only white heat remained.
Window glass dripped, became a petrified lake where
fish eyes glared as the day was pushed down the abyss
of night. Black, shiny boots trampled all to fragments,
but the fiend’s eye was forever glued to the inside of
my mind.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
डांस नोक्टुरने
Dance Nocturne
August night is an abyss hotter than the day
and the wind that blows was born in hell.
From open windows and their dark interiors
the primal scream of lovemaking,
wriggling bodies trying to produce a child
that like them soon will die, but first it has to
go to the ritual called love, which is but a primitive
urge to copulate the planting of a seed before
sinking back underground, spent, forgotten in
mass graves of boredom, decorated with flowers
that radiates deaths to come.
The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and
forever vanishes into an ancient forest while werewolves
sway to a Mexican dirge.
August night is an abyss hotter than the day
and the wind that blows was born in hell.
From open windows and their dark interiors
the primal scream of lovemaking,
wriggling bodies trying to produce a child
that like them soon will die, but first it has to
go to the ritual called love, which is but a primitive
urge to copulate the planting of a seed before
sinking back underground, spent, forgotten in
mass graves of boredom, decorated with flowers
that radiates deaths to come.
The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and
forever vanishes into an ancient forest while werewolves
sway to a Mexican dirge.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
हाउ मिल्ड फल इस
How mild the fall is?
I followed a track between tall, pale green cactuses, in this harsh landscape
where even the smallest plant has thorns, where bark and leaves, of even
regular trees, like carob and olive, are tough and will not softens to human
touch. Yet this is a landscape that once was tilled and now abandoned, does
this landscape’s common soul feels rancorous of being left to fend for itself?
I found a ruin. More than a ruin, a pile of stones only its outline told me that
once this had been a home where children had been born, lived and died
for generations, till someone said: enough! And left for pastures green, (most
likely USA or Canada,) poverty is only romantic in movies. Half of November
gone, I’m walking about in shirt sleeves the ground is rock hard and dusty,
the local paper tells us that 14 years ago the weather was mild too till January,
then it snowed and it was cold till May. Feel I’m being watched in the bushes
I see a boar watching me it is a wily old boar it sees I carry no gun, yet keeps
its distance; and high above me circles eagles; the landscape is teaming with
rabbits which used to be food for the people, who lived in the ruin (when
they could snare one) now business men, who have paid for a license to kill,
come here to unwind. To kill seems to satisfy a base desire in mankind; yet, it
is better a rabbit is scarified, then to see a dead Afghan child with eyes that
reflect the grey mountains, poppy fields and the blue unfeeling sky.
I followed a track between tall, pale green cactuses, in this harsh landscape
where even the smallest plant has thorns, where bark and leaves, of even
regular trees, like carob and olive, are tough and will not softens to human
touch. Yet this is a landscape that once was tilled and now abandoned, does
this landscape’s common soul feels rancorous of being left to fend for itself?
I found a ruin. More than a ruin, a pile of stones only its outline told me that
once this had been a home where children had been born, lived and died
for generations, till someone said: enough! And left for pastures green, (most
likely USA or Canada,) poverty is only romantic in movies. Half of November
gone, I’m walking about in shirt sleeves the ground is rock hard and dusty,
the local paper tells us that 14 years ago the weather was mild too till January,
then it snowed and it was cold till May. Feel I’m being watched in the bushes
I see a boar watching me it is a wily old boar it sees I carry no gun, yet keeps
its distance; and high above me circles eagles; the landscape is teaming with
rabbits which used to be food for the people, who lived in the ruin (when
they could snare one) now business men, who have paid for a license to kill,
come here to unwind. To kill seems to satisfy a base desire in mankind; yet, it
is better a rabbit is scarified, then to see a dead Afghan child with eyes that
reflect the grey mountains, poppy fields and the blue unfeeling sky.
Monday, November 16, 2009
अ उसेफुल poet
A Useful Poet
This is a new document I don’t know what to write, should I be soft spoken
(I do feel like shouting) or should I try to rhyme? Like never mind the truth
As long as it sounds good. I could write about cats, dog, birds and butterflies,
people like that and there is a perception that poetry should exude peace
and tranquility and we must know by now that that is not true. My king is
going to war again and have asked me to write a poem that makes people
jingoistic ready to fight a wrong war, (all wars are wrong) and since I have
been given a medal. as a man for all seasons I must comply, but I do feel like
spitting on my own grave for it is not possible to be a poet and not defending
those who starve and needs a voice to speak and defend their cause.
This is a new document I don’t know what to write, should I be soft spoken
(I do feel like shouting) or should I try to rhyme? Like never mind the truth
As long as it sounds good. I could write about cats, dog, birds and butterflies,
people like that and there is a perception that poetry should exude peace
and tranquility and we must know by now that that is not true. My king is
going to war again and have asked me to write a poem that makes people
jingoistic ready to fight a wrong war, (all wars are wrong) and since I have
been given a medal. as a man for all seasons I must comply, but I do feel like
spitting on my own grave for it is not possible to be a poet and not defending
those who starve and needs a voice to speak and defend their cause.
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