Autophony

After Diwali

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 15 Sep 2025 23:08:00 +0530

When the last recalcitrant Delhiite has choked on his firecrackers and blamed the farmers of Punjab;

When the abused cow has looked on bemusedly at the Vasu Baras worshippers;

When the Made-in-China lights have either electrocuted the middle child or died altogether;

When the brothers are back home after hearing subtle dowry demands from their brothers-in-law;

When the tacky gold jewelry of dubious caratage bought under Akshaya Tritiya has induced buyer's regret;

When the unopened boxes of soan papdi have turned rancid and been given to sundry watchmen, postmen, maids and drivers;

When the holy librandus have argued themselves sore over the environment;

When the bizarre-most of kandeels have caused nervous desensitization;

When the same kitschy fiber "gifting" has made its final round and cracked unusably;

When the vegan has gotten off their high horse to sneak "just one" kaju katli;

When the toes of both feet have joined the fingers of both hands in being burned at Muhurat trading;

Into that after-beej of quietude,

my Father, let my morning awake.

Published in GloMag December 2024

ஏன் என்ற கேள்வி/ A Question Called Why

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 15 Sep 2025 00:46:00 +0530

This question called why

அனைத்திலும் மிகவும் எரிச்சலூட்டும் கேள்வி.

Why is this happening to me?

நான் ஏன் தவறு செய்தாலும் என் மீது தவறு இல்லை?

Why could it not happen any other way?

இந்த வலி, இந்த பதட்டம், இந்த முடிவில்லா துக்கத் தொடர்

One never, truly never, has an answer that satisfies.

அதைச் சரிசெய்கிறேன் - வேறொருவருக்கு திருப்தி இருக்கலாம். எனக்கு இல்லை.

Even Buddha, I think, did not have an answer.

அந்த முப்பீடகங்களில் என்ன எழுதப்பட்டிருந்தாலும்.

I am tempted to be jealous of those that believe in God. Or Karma. Or Kismet.

அவர்கள் அவ்வளவு எளிதாக அதுதான் காரணம் என்று கூறுகிறார்கள்.

Does that actually answer their questions?

அல்லது தன்னைத்தானே திருப்திப்படுத்திக் கொள்வது ஒரு சமரசமா?

ஏன்?

Why is this question alone, never answerable?

இந்த அமைதியற்ற மனதிடம் சொல்ல வேண்டும்.

Do not look for an answer for there is none that is true.

ஒருவேளை அதுதான் புத்தர் கண்டுபிடித்த ஷூன்யமாக இருக்கலாமோ?

I don't know.

தெரிய வேண்டாம்.

Round Up

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 14 Sep 2025 22:16:00 +0530

Round up all the men because women have the right to walk freely without fear of rape.

Round up all the Muslims because Hindus have the right to walk freely without fear of terrorism.

Round up all the politicians because voters have the right to walk freely without fear of nonsense.

Round up all the mosquitoes because people have the right to walk freely without fear of malaria.

Round up all the religion-men because atheists have the right to walk freely without fear of preaching.

Round up all the clouds because I have the right to walk freely without fear of getting wet.

Round up all the men because women have the right to walk freely without fear of rape.

Round up all the pedestrians because drivers have the right to drive freely without fear of jaywalking.

Round up all the Bosnians because Serbs have the right to walk freely without fear of ... whatever Bosnians do.

Round up all the Serbs because Bosnians have the right to walk freely without fear of ... whatever Serbs do.

Round up all the wokes because we the good people have the right to walk freely without fear of getting woke.

Round up all the non-wokes because we the good people have the right to walk freely without fear of getting non-woke.

And while we're at it...

Round up all the poets because we the prosaic have the right to walk freely without fear of what might jolt our biases.

First published in Glomag August 2025 p 237-239

la douleur

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 29 Aug 2025 17:34:00 +0530

C'est dans la douleur, dit-on, que naît toute la poésie

Je ne suis pas d'accord, car cela vient du cœur

—et le cœur est un imbécile sans pareil

il ne connaît pas la douleur jusqu'à ce qu'il la ressente

au-delà de la peau, des muscles, des côtes

quand c'est trop tard

Il saigne alors en mots, dansant une tarentelle

et on pense que c'est la beauté—c'est juste sa bêtise

comme celle d'Hélène de Ronsard à son fuseau.

Nous sommes tous les farces de Molière

avec nos maladies et vanités imaginaires

tu es Tartuffe, il est Argan, elle est Philaminte

Et moi, je suis (qui d'autre?)

le bourgeois gentilhomme lui-même

Qui ne sait pas que le monde se moque de lui

qui se lèche et est fier de lui-même—

le même chose stupide dans ses côtes,

qui, un jour, amènera-le

s'allonger sur les neiges de la Bérézina

son sang se glace alors qu'il suinte

Ou peut-être qu'il échappera à une mort lente

ce cœur stupide—sa tête dans un panier

alors que ce même sang chaud et fier coule

de la lame de guillotine ci-dessus

Alors il n'y aura plus de douleur,

pas de chagrin, pas de regret

Mais un autre imbécile trouvera un stylo

et tout recommencera.

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 16 Sep 2024 00:53:00 +0530

There was a young man from Haryana

Who moved his home to Telangana

He learned Hiragana

And then Katakana

For he thought he was in Japan-a

Fit

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 29 Aug 2023 05:44:00 +0530

What we are is a jigsaw

pieces that come together

searching for edges that match

some we know will never sit:

a sideways glance, a crush,

a lifelong regret;

some we think will last, but no

we stick around a while

and then we know we are meant

for other things, other people,

other places but mostly

just being othered

some of us are corner pieces

who know where we are and

who will come to find us

eventually

I can only wish I was that

and some of us are that piece

that doesn't fit

neither color nor shape nor corner

we force it sometimes, set it aside

for some later unfulfillable hope

until it is too late to realise

we were left over from another

puzzle, with only the longing

to fit, to belong, to be included

Published in GloMag, October 2023

Nellie, 1983

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 28 Jul 2019 19:47:00 +0530

Very often the sun rises
in warm, golden rays
on opening buds,
birdsong and dewdrops,
and the stench of stale death.

Very often the sun rises
Upon mutilated men -
blood drying over their eyes
and gore-caked machetes
rusting in their abdomens.

Very often the sun rises
over hyaenas fretting
over the carrion going waste -
they can eat no more,
nor can the vultures.

Very often the sun rises
on a day already defeated
- shrieking, screeching, screaming,
demanding that it go back
for there was peace in the night.

Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.

abr-e-inqilab اَبر اِنقلاب

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 28 Jul 2019 19:39:00 +0530

جو اِن جھُلَستی اُمّیدوں پَر آب خَلاس بَنکَر بَرسینگے

کِسی دِن تو فَلَک ظُلم پَر وَہ اَبر اِنقلاب چھاءیں گے

جو ظالِموں کے اِن کاذِب میناروں کو بَہا لے جاءییں گے

کِسی دِن تو وہ اشک مُلازِم ایک عظیم سیلاب بانیں گے

جو بیکَس سونیپَن کو بِکھراکَر صبَح کی ضوء لے آءییں گے

کیسی دِن تہ اُمّیدیں خاک سے اُٹھکَر آسماں کو چھوءییں گے

جو اِس دِیار خوار کو دولۃ و خَیر سے پھِر آباد کاریں گے

کِسی دِن تہ خُشِیوں کے وہ بیحِساب اوقات لَوٹ آءییں گے

جو مَحکوُموں کے سَپنوں کو جَمحوُریَۃ کا نام دِلاءییں گے
کِسی دِن تہ خانہ بَدوش رجاء کے نجم ٹِمٹِماءییں گے

Jo in jhulasti ummeedon par aab-e-khalaas bankar barsenge
Kisi din to falak-e-zulm par woh abr-e-inqilab chhaenge

Jo zaalimon ke in kaazib meenaron ko baha le jayenge
Kisi din to woh ashk-e-mulazim ek azeem sailaab banenge

Jo bekas soonepan ko bikhraakar subah ki zau le ayenge
Kisi din to woh ummeeden khaak se uthkar aasmaan ko chhooenge

Jo is diyaar-e-khwaar ko daulat-o-khair se phir aabaad karenge
Kisi din to khushiyon ke woh behisaab auqaat laut ayenge

Jo mehkoomon ke sapnon ko jamhooriyat ka naam dilaayenge
Kisi din to khaanehbadosh rajaa' ke najm timtimaayenge

Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2018

Ninety nine

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 28 Jul 2019 19:37:00 +0530

It is an interesting number
one short of the one that
is held as a gold standard
for measures of success and failure,
the number that judges everything
from someone's sincerity to
the contamination in a bar of iron.
It is a hungry number, besmirched
by an accusation of incompleteness
though it is so perfect in form,
its twin members so beautifully
illustrating its two divisors
the first one less, the second one more
than that other fabulous number
which multiplied by itself yields
that magic figure all men yearn for.
Perfect and yet always incomplete.
Ever hungry, ninety nine.

(Exactly 99 words)

Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2018

EPIGRAMMATA

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 24 Apr 2019 12:29:00 +0530

Black tea, a new day dawns. Trees dice
the sunlight turning blinding white
into playful delight. The soft tinkles
of the anklets on your feet: is silver's

beauty still in its cold shine? The heart
amuses itself in teaching what it never
understood. Stained-glass window shadows
on the floor paint a fresco: nature also

makes chameleons that contrast with her
butterflies. Smileys on the screen, this
heart enchants itself with your imagined
smile. They're sodium chloride, but by

what chemistry do tears wash away sorrow?
What am I - a body and brain, products of
carbon concatenation chemistry hurtling
into nothingness. I live on coffee and

black depression, neither water nor fire
touch now, of my shell what is left to hurt?
Few thing delight one as fried maida and
petty triumph; my memories have erased you.

Published in GloMag April 2019

The Flying Scotsman

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 16 Nov 2017 12:20:00 +0530

Yont brattlin clood an seelent glen

Tweetlin a-lood the ingine skirls

this noisome train wi lanely men

hame-comin whaur thair lassies birls

whit lends thay awe, an whit dets thirls

whit ailin mam, whit seekly bairn

thair dreams forby the train-smeuk swirls

bi new gless tour or auncient cairn

thay ken nae sang, thaur herts made airn

thair mynds full o the twalmonth tack

regairdless o loch, pen or tairn

thay anely think o whit thay lack

ay but thinkna muckle o it

ye an a, we're an aw in it

Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2017

ed. Padmaja Iyengar,

Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

To the piece of orange peel in my bag on the trip to Janjira,

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 16 Nov 2017 08:18:00 +0530

You were the only one to stay by my side when all others
Had left me to travel that final stretch homeward alone
And while I had to throw you away after two days
Because of the stench that made me put the bag in the wash
And earn mother's censure onto which she piled older grievances
You did help relive some happy memories of the sea breeze
And the boatmen's chatter and the old bronze cannons’ roar
And cope with those whose IQ is less than yours
And taught me that I was mortal in that ride across the creek
And that like you I too shall one day be stripped of my essence
And confined to the dustbin of humanity

I miss you, orange peel

Published in Lakdi Ka Pul - II The Poetry Bridge 2017 — an international anthology by Twin City Poetry Club

का नाही आलास?

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 6 Sep 2017 12:44:00 +0530

जेव्हा शेतकऱ्यांनी तुला शोधताना
आत्महत्येचे विचार केले
तेव्हा का नाही आलास?

बालकृष्णाचे हाण्डी फोडणारे
गोविन्दा चढले पडले हात पाय तुटले
तेव्हा का नाही आलास?

गणपती बाप्पा येउन गेले
सागरात प्लास्टरचे तुकडे झाले
तेव्हा का नाही आलास?

अाता तुझ्याविना जगणे शिकले
पाउस हा शब्दच विसरले

मित्रा अाता कशाला आलास?

Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016
ed. Padmaja Iyengar,
Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

我爱中国

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 6 Sep 2017 12:42:00 +0530

你好! 我很高兴认识你。
我叫蒋捷连。你叫什么名字？
我是中国人民大学的学生。
我妈妈叫丁子霖,她很漂亮。
我爸爸叫蔣培坤,他很明智。
她们是老师,在北京大学工作。

我爱中国和我喜欢吃中国菜。
我喜欢看好莱坞电影。
我想去长城,西藏和台湾。

今天六月四日,一九八九年。
昨天我的生日,我今年十七岁了。
我和我的朋友，我们都在木樨地。
是凌晨一点十分。
有在我的脑海子弹了。再见!

Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016
ed. Padmaja Iyengar,
Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

Haiku in Kodava Takk

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 6 Sep 2017 12:39:00 +0530

ಎಲ್ಲಿ ಪೋಯಿತ್
ನಾಡ ಕಣ್ಣುಡ ಆರಯು
ಬಾರ ಮಳೆ

Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016
ed. Padmaja Iyengar,
Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

Six Kannada haiku

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 6 Sep 2017 12:35:00 +0530

ಕೋಳಿ ಸುಟ್ಟು ರಸ್ತೆ —
ಒಂದು ಹೆಸರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಎಷ್ಟು
ರಹಸ್ಯಗಳು

ರಾಗಿ ಮುದ್ದೆ
— ಹೊರನಾಡಿನಲ್ಲಿ
ಮಣ್ಣು ವಾಸನೆ

ಕೋಗಿಲೆ ಹಾಡು
— ಹಾಲುಗಾರರಿನ
ಸೈಕಲ್ ಗಂಟೆ

ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿನಲ್ಲಿ
ಹೊರಗಿನವರು
— ಬೆಳ್ಳಂದೂರು ನೊರೆ

ಗಾಜಿನ ಕಟ್ಟಡಗಳು —
ಒಂದು ಟಂಬ್ಲರ್ ಮಜ್ಜಿಗೆ
ಎಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಕ್ಕತೆ

ಕೊಳಲುಗಾರ
— ಎಂ ಜಿ ರಸ್ತೆಯಲ್ಲಿ
ಏರ್ಟೆಲ್ ರಾಗ

Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016
ed. Padmaja Iyengar,
Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

உன்னைத் தேடும் கண்கள்

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 6 Sep 2017 12:26:00 +0530

நீ வருவாய், நீ வருவாய், உனை நினைத்து ஏங்கும் கண்கள்
கடற்க்கரை நாடும் அலைகளைப்போல் உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள்

மணத்தில் மயங்கி, மலரைத் தேடிக்கொண்டு இங்கும் அங்கும்
அலையும் ஒவ்வொரு பட்டாம்பூச்சிப்போல் உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள்

மலை இறங்கி, நிலம் தாண்டீ, கரை எங்கே கரை எங்கே
கடலைத் தேடீக்கொண்டு ஓடும் ஆறுபோல் உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள்

கடலிருந்து காற்றை வ்ழி கேட்டு, வானை வழி கேட்டு,
புவியை தேடி வரும் கார்முகில்போல் உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள்

ஆயிரம் ஆண்டு ஒரே வேட்கையில் தனை எரித்துக்கொண்டு
ஆதவனைச் சுற்றி வரும் வால்மீன்போல், உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள்

உனை புகழ சொல் இல்லாமல் இருக்கிரான் 'வழிப்போக்கன்',
கண்ண்னைத் நாடி பாடிய மீராப்போல், உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள்

Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016
ed. Padmaja Iyengar,
Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

The Pastorale That Isn't

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 4 Sep 2017 10:30:00 +0530

The subtle play of light
on the tamhan blossoms:
violet turns pink turns lavender;

on a pre-monsoon June morning,
a crow contemplates its nest
overlooking white mounds of salt
by the pans and the raptor –
perhaps a fishing eagle –
a black speck starring
the day sky.

And then there
are the gulmohar and amaltas
with pods like ugly brown penises,
their spring crowns thinking
and last the welcome canopy
of the rain-tree.

I sigh.
It could have been an idyll,
a pastorale even,
but for the electricity pylons,
the rows of false ashoka
and the dour grey of a building
under construction.
I'm in a belching taxi,
late to work again.

(Published in Setu Bilingual Journal, August 2017)

पराये की पीड़ा

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 19 Aug 2017 12:20:00 +0530

कभी पराये की पीड़ा भी अपनी हुआ करती थी।
आज जो मिट गया है दर्द, अपने भी पराये हो गए।।

A Wanderer's Funeral

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 16 Aug 2017 16:28:00 +0530

I come at last to a wanderer's grave,
My sexton is the vulture's jaw;
He'll bury me by the wanderer's law
In open field or cloistered cave.

The buzzing flies will make up my shroud,
As the wind howls my death lament.
While I convulse through my last torment,
They chant my rites clear and loud.

The vagrant at last shall come to stay,
In the maggot's fattening zest.
May I think I've found eternal rest
As my tissues ferment away?

But for peace I shall pray in vain,
For my bones roll on upon the plain.

(Published in GloMag, December 2015 p72)

Learning Portuguese

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 15 Aug 2017 11:31:00 +0530

On the way to saying it, I find that the snake
eats pineapple and that the tiger eats bread,
the butterfly writes a book and your horse eats salt

and that I have a pink plate, the last one quite
unexpected. I’m so far não entendo but
eu trabalho, I am still working on it.

Desculpe, desculpe, I know I will get there
They’ve got me to perdemo você and oh
how would they even know I miss you, how would they?

On the way we get to eu quero você -
of course I want you - and then they let me say it:
for now and forever - eu amo você

Published in GloMag February 2017, ed. Glory Sasikala; Cyberwit.net, Allahabad, 2017. ISBN: 978-93-85945-78-6.

Narrow Road Vol 2 is now live

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 7 Aug 2017 14:24:00 +0530

Rohini, Paresh and yours truly are happy to announce the release of the second volume of our journal of flash fiction, poetry and haibun, Narrow Road. Featuring authors from the Philippines, India, Denmark, UK, Canada and the USA, this was our first issue with open submissions. You can read the journal here:

https://issuu.com/narrowroad.mag/docs/narrow_road_vol_2_august_2017

Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 21 Jul 2017 18:00:00 +0530

Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara
Shall I tell the story of how you came to be
Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara?

When your dying king bid you blind his young brother
You deceived him with goat's eyes, what vile treachery!
Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara!

You who crowned Krishnadevaraya emperor
With all the Coromandel as your demesne
Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara!

The king's son was poisoned; he charged you for murder.
He put out your eyes and granted you no mercy -
Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara!

The truth was discovered, you regained your honour
He sought to atone and restore you to glory -
Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara.

Beware a kings' whims and all his behaviour:
Let that be what we learn from this tragic story.
Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara
Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara.

Published in Indian Periodical, 16 July 2017

War is Necessary

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 14 Jul 2017 10:48:00 +0530

Yes, war is necessary.

But let my wife not be widowed,
Nor my children orphaned.
Nor let my mother and father
Spend life’s last lap looking
At the photograph of me
Saluting at my passing out parade
Trying desperately to stifle a tear.

War, however, is necessary.

But my career is also necessary.
That US visa, that VP designation
And that Thailand…
Well, whatever happens in Thailand.
And that 5-crore sea facing flat.

It’s necessary, war is necessary.

I am aware that the men in uniform
Fighting the blizzards of Siachen
Or sudden fire on the Line of Control
Or fearlessly facing militants
Martyr themselves for the Nation,
But I fulfill my responsibilities too
And have never failed to offer
Koti koti shraddhanjali
On Facebook and Twitter.

War, however, is necessary.

But it is not in my fate that I,
Clutching a mug of cold tea at 3 AM,
Fight a jihad against sleep; nor,
Wearing body armour (If I get any)
Depart for a crusade against
The searing heat of the desert.
And I must forget altogether,
Going on a tour to Rwanda on a UN
peace mission. I’ll make do with Goa.

But yes, war is necessary.

(Published in GloMag, October 2016 p74)

This Tendency to Die

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 29 Jun 2017 16:53:00 +0530

Pets are prone to it. As are grandchildren.
And the little birdies and kittens
You bring in from the cold.
All you can do is rage - in impotent disbelief,
And sorrow, and anger, and desire, and hope,
And go through what they call the four
Stages of grief, but what man was so heartless
To coolly count while a woman smashed
Her bangles on her wrists, fresh-widowed?
But it’s a tendency we cannot avoid,
And while we may clamour, in foolish lust
For the hanging or shooting or electrocution
Of someone we have been taught to fear;
Our own papa or hubby or Sox or Puppy
We were never taught. Oh yes, there it is
In the Vedas and Quran and the Confucian texts
And maybe we could use it for our own time,
But for papa or hubby or Sox or Puppy
We never could learn, never could be taught.
All you get is vague notions that are inadequate,
So inadequate, to fill that rising emptiness
Called life hereafter. And yet we fill it and
‘move on’ till someone else expresses, unwantedly,
This strange tendency in us to die.

(Published in GloMag, May-June 2017)