Desicritics Category: Culture: Poetry

poetry: january 1, 2009

temporal — Thu, 1 Jan 2009 15:39:29 EST

georgiou emptied the bins - coffee cups,
crushed cans, mickeys, wrappers, paper tissues
and sweeeping the Nathan Phillips Square
gathered frozen kisses, melting sighs,
discarded resolutions and shouted greetings
that had ushered in the first day of an uncertain year
as he went about methodically he knew he'd survive
- as would most in the west, relatively unscathed

the future is full of long shadows
for those in occupied Gaza, Somalia,
Darfur, FATA, Afghanistan, Iraq...
the world has shuttered the window
blinds drawn

wish you and those around you
health and peace for the coming months

having put in his hours in the chill
georgiou smiled pensively, took off work gloves
changed and went home

Poessay: I'm Not Dev Das and You're Not Anarkali

temporal — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 12:20:07 EST

painting - Gulgee

Permanence is a Utopian illusion. It is nurtured by groups that ferment a vested interest - popes, padres, rabbis, maulvis, pundits, financiers - purveyors of permanence.

Insomniac Dream Sellers of
Truth, Beauty, Wisdom, Courage, Love, Anger, Hatred

Sea
and Mountain
Enslaved and encircled with smile.

Then the smile melted
His?
Her's?
His smile melted her? Her smile melted him?
0r like the shivering polar ice
Melting under the rape of environment
Euphemism for global warming

Sea - the mother of transmogrification
-clouds, snow, rain, lakes, rivers
And completing the circle - sea

The circular reverberation
Womb - grave - womb
Is the tale of drops
spermatozoa
"Read, read in the names of thy Lord..."

***

for believers it is Him
for others some grand design
that would finally still
                           the drop
the last meltdown
when neither love
                           nor hate
will deter, defer, persuade or play
                         when the smile
will last for ever sans flesh

we, who indulge in super hate
we, who miss not an opportunity
to throw barbs, grenades
and uranium tipped mines and bombs
we, who excel at malevolence
- when will love conquer us?

yaadOn ka guldasta thamay*
sar-saratay sukoon maiN ghar'q
jub saa'yay hum aa ghosh hotay haiN
tou mudhoshi ki devi bhee
khud hee muskurati hogi
hosh apnay kho bethti hogi

ab tou yaad ki baiRiyouN maiN qaid
dabay qadmON t'ra tasawwur
youN chala aata hay kay
khood faraibi ka shaiba
bhee choo ker nahiN guzarta
choti ki is joostujoo maiN
khaai maiN girnay ka ehsaas kisay

said the bluebird to the bulbul
the simpleton is unaware
and the curmudgeon unconcerned
love has been cremated
in hiroshima

Man shorn of humanity is hurting and hurtling down the precipice, brakes worn, singling gaily, oblivious of the rushing winds of time, aware but not cognizant of the abyss.

_________________________________________________
* translation:

clutching the bouquet of memories
and drowned in the whispering quiet
as the shadows embrace
the goddess of intoxication
would smile at herself
while letting go of sobriety

bounded in memory-chains
your thoughts tiptoe
swirling and cascading
around whims and doubts

in the strive to conquer the peak
who thinks of a fall into the abyss

Manjit Bawa Passes Away

Amitabh Mitra — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 00:28:27 EST

And colors fell silent today

A sun struck with

Anecdotes and animals

Screamed somewhere

Narrow yellows merged in

Thick orb of orange

Streets were blown

In a dupatta of white

A smile tinged in a ravishing

Blue suddenly looked back

I had seen them all at Garhi

In the seventies

The eye had then staged

Plays of a turntable

Time

Twice even thrice

In a single day

Violence was the afternoon

Manjit drew in rude

Delhi summers

Riding words of a chiasma

Violence is the afternoon

We saw him in flames

Of years and layers

Untold by a dark

Violence he left

Is you and me

And a coherence of

Irrefutable days

He chose to give

Away.

Manjit Bawa passed away today at his home in Delhi. He had been in a coma for three years. One of the first painters to break out of the dominant grays and browns of the western art and opt for more Indian colours like red and violet, the maestro was influenced by nature, Sufi mysticism and Indian mythology. Renowned Poet Pritish Nandy who had given shows of his poetry and art with him was one of his closest friends.

Poessay: Rosary 22 - A Simple Poem

temporal — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 13:28:01 EST

painting -nahid raza

love me or let me go
the crooner sang
as i channel surfed,
ate, walked, read,
intermittently gazed
at this ball point
wrote, paused and
pondered over the feel
of all the pens have possessed
ball points with fine points
blue, black, red, even green
old fashioned ink filled pens
ah the old parker
the zee nibs, the ink pots
stained hands and clothes
the set of unused calligraphy pens
pens with cushy holders
handcrafted tops
folding pens for travel
thin pens, modulated pens
and reminisced
the feel of my favourite pen
a pen warm and flowing
comfortably imprisoning wayward words

laikin kalam qal`m ka marhoon e minnat kahaaN?
aamud hoti hay kalam ki
phir woh sadiON seena ba seena
musafat tay karta hu`aye
safha e zaati say safha e qartaas per
kabhi youN muntakil hota hay
kay paRhnay wala baisakhta bOl oothay
`wallah! kya baat paida ki hay dost
yehi baat tO m`ray dil maiN thee
yehi baat tO maiN kehna chahta thaa...`

words
ensconced in dictionaries
listless and trembling
only a writer's pen
can furnish them a soul

through the centuries, bosom to bosom
brain to brain, to impulses, to fingers
to pen, to ink, to paper
the journey enigmatic, intricate and involved

flawlessly the moving finger infuses
words - simple, loaded
burnished in the heart
and when reader reads
s/he simply nods in agreement
at the palpitations shared

i get up
fetch some water
return, read, surf
write and rewrite
as the crooner sings
…or love me forever…

Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree
Poessay: Rosary 18 - burning blazing fire rages
Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwur LafzouN Ka
Poessay: Rosary 20 - Thanksgiving I

Poessay: Rosary 21: KhamOshi - Wordless

19 Varieties of Gazelle: Poems of the Middle East by Naomi Shihab Nye

Vivek Sharma — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 02:03:31 EST

Naomi Shihab Nye's collection contains sixty poems about Palestinians and Middle East, about love and longing for lost and imaginary homelands. The poems are fragrant with spices of the Middle-East, flavors of figs and olives, and served with a tenderness of a grandmother talking to a grandchild, a five year old to his mother, an aged man to his beloved he unites with after a lifetime.

In the world torn by religious and political conflicts, these poems represent an oasis of hope. It is the humanity of these verses, that leaps from the page like the memory of nineteen varieties of gazelle described in the title poem.

The poems assume special significance in the context of post-September 11 world, for they contain a platter of understanding and taste served to assuage our need to be comforted. The solace is brought in by the mint green language of a poet born to a Palestinian father and an American mother. Perhaps the unique identity of Nye offers her perspectives about the Arab East and American West which her creativity has shaped into a narrative that offers respite from the reactionary rhetoric that dominates our daily thinking and actions.

As an Indian residing in America, I sense a brotherhood with Nye's characters, who chase the voices, flavors, visions, music and familiarity that maps their nostalgic world. As a poet with Indian heart and Americanized mind, I find Nye, like Agha Shahid Ali, present our cultural and emotional duality in a lyric that is both powerful and poignant. The tapestry of inheritance of the East is laced with tales quite unknown in the West, and this wealth can nourish many a chasms that exist between the material and spiritual. It is voices like Amichai's and Nye's that remind us that the transcendental humanity within us can help us to outlive the wounds inflicted by the fanatic forces everywhere.

Poessay: Rosary 21: KhamOshi - Wordless

temporal — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 11:01:14 EST

(photo by Brian Mayeux)

khamOshi
sukoot
qayam rakhtay hu`aye
oos nay raaz e dil a`yaaN kya
jaanay kis haal maiN hoga woh aaj
lafzON ka yeh ehtraam
jo oos nay sikhaya
qaim hay

wordlessly
inaudibly
she conveyed her
dreams, doubts, aches
don't know where she is now
this respect for speech
she inculcated
lingers
Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree
Poessay: Rosary 18 - burning blazing fire rages
Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwur LafzouN Ka
Poessay: Rosary 20 - Thanksgiving I

Poessay: Rosary 20 - Thanksgiving I

temporal — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 01:31:08 EST

these fleeting moments
when urges tell
nay dictate, we bow
to our copy-righted gods

zindagi kay yeh guzartay lamhay
rooh ki gehraiyON say oothti khaahishaiN
                        kehtee haiN
hukum daitee haiN sajda karo
apnay munn maiN basay khudaouN ko

in that foggy mist
(was it a cavern or tavern?)
came the revelation
       our lives are but a passage
between two smiles
come, walk with me
through the misty bazaar
fragmented with contaminates
                      of noise, air(s)
                      of thought, thinking
                      pollutants
                      induced, inherited
mental, physical
you must walk with me

aao m'ray saath
bazaar-e-zindagi ho aa'aiN zara
ghubar kay aqsaam haiN jahaN dast-yaab
                       ghubaar
                       raah ka, shOr ka, sOch ka
                       wirasat ka, takhleeq ka
chalo meray saath chalo

two smiles -

first smile plays
on the newborn's lips
no discernment there
matters not if desert winds
or slum`s arrested smell
envelope the infant`s mat
matters not if engineered air
surrounded the mattress,
in some whorehouse
with uniformed attendants
whirling as if ordained

second smile
emanates from a body
a still body
that has finally resolved
all arguments with the temporal

between these two smiles
are submerged a thousand dreams, desires
yours and mine
and infrequently when they come true
another smile breaks out
unique, furtive, fleeing

teri meri in mooskurahatON kay baiN
haiN madfun najanay kitnay khaab, khaahishaiN
maauj-e-hawadis gar bad'l day jo naseeb oonka
phir raqsaaN hoti hai ek munfarid mooskurahat

and those fleeting moments
chance encounters really
dictate how we bow
to our copy-righted gods

poem: hatred and love

temporal — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 03:18:42 EST

Reuters – A clock is seen in front of the
logo of Swiss bank Credit Suisse at
the Paradeplatz square in Zurich …

we have to wait a second longer
for 2008 to end
those who exude hatred
would have more
time
                           to maim
                                 to hate
                                 to kill

i hate hatred
                                 but understand the necessity
without                       hatred
love would have no place to flourish

if hatred was a sacrificial goat
it should be rescued and protected

despite the century of holocausts
armenians, gypsies, jews, hindus, muslims,
cambodians, rwandans, bosnians, chechenians...
despite the murders and mayhems
hate should be protected and mirrored

sorry t.s.e. april is not the cruelest month
                                 november is...

each hateful act, each act of violence
enhances the resolve
                                 to hate hatred
                             to love love
even if it be with moistened eyes

Dr. Binayak Sen - A Poem

Amitabh Mitra — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 00:55:18 EST

Chattisgarh
Nothing really happened on that day
A few crows bled
Others were strangulated
In a corner of a sky
That turned gradually red
I told you
About these crows
My departure yielding
To another sky
Yet somebody far had been
Brought down suddenly
And cast away behind iron seasons
The crows bled soaking
The sun
I had held aloft
And its redness
Slit the earth too
Faraway again
Would you recognise me then
Would you still mingle your voice
Would you breathe on my shadow
Would you fear catching the corner of
That sky.

Dr Binayak Sen, a medical doctor and human rights defender, was arrested on 12 May 2007 in Chattisgarh, India. He is currently in prison awaiting a trial that has been repeatedly delayed.

Police allege that he passed letters between imprisoned members of a banned leftist group. However, Amnesty International believes the charges against him are politically motivated, aimed at stopping his human rights work. Dr Sen, a pioneer in providing accessible health care to the rural poor, has been documenting the impact of conflict in the region on the rights of marginalised communities.

Mumbai, I Bequeath My Death

Amitabh Mitra — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 14:24:56 EST

I bequeath my death to Mumbai, its many streets, its many lanes
And a sun that never rose on that day
There were no shadows from Bollywood hoardings
Neither from the ghettos of Kurla and Worli
Nor from the mortal divide of a stranger innocence

I bequeath my death to the beggar who died outside the Leopold Café
They shot him and his past; his coins fell from his present
They shot my past too at the narrow street next to it
Where I had once kissed a girl in a fevered evening
And dared again in a night of untoward violence

I bequeath my death to the fireflies at Queens Necklace
That never arrived that day
And to the single Kalashnikov bullet
That stared shamelessly at me
From a footprint in the dark

I bequeath my death to many a death
Many a hurt
And the sky that bled
In a single shroud, a single season,
A single word

I bequeath my death to Mumbai poets
Kaifi Aazmi, Arun Kolatkar and many others
And those who died in their end thoughts
They died again and again
With me on that day