Autophony

Division of Labour

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 10:45:44 PST

The division of labour between poet and person
I think, is very cumbersome:
The poet is of course free -
To live in a truth of his own contrivance
Strewn with an abundance of roses or miseries
As he sees fit;
The person often has a wife and child
And so the slavery of billed existence.
But he is the one with the eyes and ears
That the poet so parasitises on
To turn sights into spectacles
And sounds into symphonies
Or all into a dystopic, pus-filled rant.
It is in this obscene dance of words yet
That the person finds freedom -
However fleeting - from his personhood
Entrapped in flesh, that presents him mirages
To drudge on.
Cumbersome indeed then, this schizophrenia
Of being real and imaginary
In the same fragile frame.

Going home

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 10:37:29 PST

Railway toilets plastered with washing soda,
The rasping of nylon streamers against fly racquets,
Chinese toys beating about before the vendor quickly bundles up and flees,
Jasmine garlands and incense-stick boxes
Sharing space with severed goats' heads
Their eyes staring glassily at you to match your startled glance,
The smell of fried flour and potatoes,
And of withering cabbage stalks,
Taxi smoke, gasoline and soot,
Sweat - anxious sweat - whiffing by on hurried steps,
And a quickly muttered apology on pushing you out of the way,
Mysore masala dosas frying on a street griddle
All beetroot and carrot and tomato flakes,
A promise of naked women in usb drives,
And hard-bodied nude males promising fairer skin from giant billboards,
Death of course, lurking everywhere, sometimes peering from a bier,
Suburban lifeforms in their TV-equipped habitats not peering out of lit windows;

And I - I just go home, as everyday.

Halfnesses

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 10:32:26 PST

Somewhere between the truth,
And our world of comforting lies,
Is the world we seek to live in,
Half earth, half fantasy;
Happiness is what we call it, Though a stagnating
lack of worry would do as well,
Maybe it's a race we're running
Against our own aging selves
Chasing a childhood memory
Always a step ahead of us:
A visible phantasm, a mirage
Concocted from our own imagined pasts
With guilt conveniently buried
In the shroud of forgetfulness
And yet - there's always a yet -
There is a listlessness, ennui,
That we never got what we wanted
And the regret, unmessianic,
Of not knowing what that was
Till the commas of life stop abruptly.

Dark

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 10:25:09 PST

Thoughts chatter
in silence
Awake in the dark

Standing Guard to Kamakhya

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 21:10:00 PST

They've seen much, these statues
Standing guard to Kamakhya's
Dark, mystic sanctum;

There's a nose lopped off here,
An ear eroded there,
By wind, by time, by swords.

They've been nested on by doves:
Love-making, chick-rearing
Guano-shedding doves.

They've seen cows amble around
Bestowing sacred dung
While bulls bestow sacred blood.

They still stand, these statues,
Their medieval silence further
stifled with vermilion and ash.

They see the pilgrims wilt
— lined in their rag-covered faith —
shivering in morning drizzle

Like oleander petals and
mango leaves; temple offerings
to an invisible goddess.

They see the pandas in red
bearings; unbearability
writ large on their pouchy faces,

Against the tall, thin trees
Banana, papaya, margosa,
shading a sacrificial goat.

They see the Brahmaputra
which is always a presence —
a brooding, looming presence.

And they see me, eager tourist
encaging them in camera stills:
Another spectacle to see.

Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 20:13:18 PST

I sit, clumsily I confess,
In a row of suitors,
Clad in their own passion
And little else besides.

For your attentions:
A lapsed lover, vending
Memories oozing pus
And neatly bottled bile;

Another in post-coital flush,
Grasping her love-maker
In yellowing afterglow
Clasping her champagne tightly;

And then there is the bore
In love perhaps with love
But more so with his voice;

The romantic, handsome
In form and phrase, most
Likely to steal you from me,
Kidnap you to some rose-strewn,
Candle-lit bathtub;

And there is the mandatory
Ageing pervert, seeking
To press your young skin
Against his fatted flesh;

You will surely lose me here,
The one with the perfect words,
Subtle, sublime, silent worship,
The carnation fully formed,
The love-tokens flawless
And in just the right shade of pink

And yet just so many words,
Set out in fourteen points
With a title and an author,
And an index entry
In an anthology of love-poems.

Free Speech

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 23:52:44 PST

I am not liking this thing called free speech.
It is giving spouse reason to phone all
friends and make discuss politics and call
all netas bad names like blood-sucking leech.
Why he not thinking when the news will reach
police they come to house - all six feet tall,
pehelwan type - and mercilessly haul
him from hiding in cupboard and will teach
lesson with dandas he will not forget?
Who is spending money in hospital
And making chakkar of court-kacheri?
Then after all that will our daughter get
Groom from good family and capital?
All this free speech talk making me wary.

The Noodle Song

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 02:33:35 PST

O dock-a-doodle dack,
Boil a noodle black.
Boil it in Artsakh
(Nagorno-Karabakh),
Boil it in Tibet
With salt and alkanet,
Boil it in Darjeeling
That will be a good thing.

O zock-a-zoodle zed
Bake the noodle red.
Bake it in Alaska,
Kansas or Nebraska.
Bake it in St Andrews
With raisins and cashews.
Bake it in Singapore,
And just a little more.

O cock-a-coodle coo,
Roast the noodle blue
Roast it in Santa Cruz
Hormuz or Veracruz
Roast it in Tripoli
With white ravioli
Roast in Wollongong
But do not keep it long.

O mock-a-moodle meen
Fry the noodle green.
Fry it in Mandalay
In oil of Olay,
Fry it in Cameroon
Under a waxing moon,
Fry it in East London
Until this song is done.

Matheran, 11th December 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 05:53:07 PST

They passed me by on horses in Matheran —
their eyes locked into each other,
unmindful of the sais leading them on
or the gilt-edged sunrise drowning them slowly,
or the bee-eaters darting, or even the macaques quarelling.

But I wonder where they're headed

— to an elopement, a temple wedding, a souring
marriage, a custody dispute, a cathartic divorce?

— to an engagement, a wedding with sangeet and
mehndi, school fees, wilting outside consulates,
an empty nest, a twilight of babysitting?

— to a break up, new relationships, nostalgia,
regrets and a fading away into Alzheimer's?

Or will they just go back, eyes looking ahead

at careers, salaries, taxes,
3 BHK flats, Euro III compliant cars,
always some few days away in a broad noon

that starlight having dimmed.

I cannot quite say. They've gone out of sight;
a group of boisterous boys arrives,
in their train - – another dozen thoughts.
I can't keep thinking all the time – so I
look back into my camera,
hunting paradise flycatchers with my viewfinder.

Fear ye

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 09:53:45 PST

Fear ye not the ravines, the jungles, the swamps
for there be but the desperate, the hungry, the ignorant,
a few may indulge in guns there, sharpen machetes
but what proof are they to a few sacks of rice,
a yard of cloth, a hovel of mud:
quake not before them, quake not ever.

But dread ye the young minds in the coffee shop,
those that smoke leaning by the wall in the alley,
filled are they with words and promise,
with hopes and visions and the blind phantasmagoria
of tomorrow's noon brightly lit;
dread them ye, dread them with your soul.

They brew poisons of not arsenic but ink,
they fletch arrows of anger not curare;
they stand in the parks and march on streets,
they defile, they profane, they vituperate
the dear, cherished gods we hold to our bosoms:
fear them today, fear them tomorrow.

On them then the tanks, the rifles, the gendarme's batons,
for them the censor's knife, the inquisitor's iron lady,
to them the syringe of cyanide, the canister of gas.
For spared they multiply like snakes;
their bodies yes, and their idioms too.
Fear ye them, for now and forever.

Morning

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 20:50:16 PST

Rays erupt on winter
morning; buds erupt
on shankhapushpam.

Beauty

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 20:49:09 PST

Thundering clouds and silent birds —
beauty is sometimes expressed differently.

Train

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 20:48:15 PST

Noisy train with lonely men
rumbles into night mist.

On learning

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 22:54:35 PST

Much of what is learned,

can only be learnt anew,

never taught.

Lightning

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 00:38:10 PST

Feet praying for nirvana,
the wanderer thirsts.
Lightning in search of earthing.

No Darshan at Kamakhya

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 04:59:35 PDT

Statues that have lost a nose here, an ear there
to forces of wind and water,
even as they gained centuries —

Doves using them for nesting,
love-making, chick-rearing
and besmirching —

Cows ambling
sacredly bestowing dung
for unwary pilgrims to step on —

Goats shedding pellets
instead of blood —

Pilgrims waiting for the doors
to open, and VIPs lining up
for their 'special' darshan —

Banana, papaya, margosa, sal and rain
trees in silent contemplation —

The drizzle that seems to be
nature's ticklish sense of humour —

Pandas in their red bearings
and unbearability —

The distant Brahmaputra
which is always a presence —

Among all this should I still say
that because she gave me no darshan
Kamakhya is cruel to me?

My Beloved's Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 11:01:17 PDT

My beloved has eyes
like deer - Mriganayanee -
soft, expressive,
radiating innocence.
Everytime she looks at me
there is a ghazal.

My beloved has eyes
fish-shaped - Meenakshi -
long eyes, with bewitching
eyelashes full of
temptation, seduction.
Everytime she looks at me
there is a sin.

My beloved has eyes
that create love - Kamakshi -
half-closed, with a light
that leads to celestial union.
Everytime she looks at me
there is a prayer.

My beloved has eyes
that show the universe - Vishalakshi -
within them, vast ocean
of timeless eternity.
Everytime she looks at me
There is moksha.

To His Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 10:55:48 PDT

Those eyes, those eyes. Seductive bloody eyes of yours,
I need a shower every time they look at me,
Just to sizzle out the mental pornography
And stop myself from begging, drooling on all fours
Dammit, they make me follow you, sneak behind doors -
An Adonis-possessed, voyeuristic zombie
Trapped in their twinkling I lose the will to be free -
Those eyes, those eyes. Seductive bloody eyes of yours

Let me have my night's sleep you enticing bastard,
And I want darkness when I close my eyes, not those
Eyelashes summoning me to rank surrender.
So now that you've got me absolutely mastered
You can switch off that magnetism, I suppose
And come and hold me closer, tighter you fucker.

Can you do poetry in a mall?

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 05:17:55 PDT

Can you do poetry in a mall, then?

Among the suburban, money-spending,
bourgeoisie stealing entertainment
from their deadline-stricken nine-to-fives?
There are lovers here, hugging,
kissing hidden behind plastic cups
of food court coffee;
friends reliving a past nightmare
relativising them into happy dreams
of childhood innocence and other cliches;
And the little undernourished salesgirls
handing out fish pedicure pamphlets
you'll throw away at home - not unlike
Andersen's match girl.

You can do poetry in a mall.

libre

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 05 Aug 2011 07:45:20 PDT

de peur je suis libre
le faim je n'ai pas
les pieds sont errant
où ils se plaisent
l'esprit maintenant
ne connait pas la terre
et le temps rest immobile
je ne suis ni un enfant
ni un vieillard décrépit
la mort est une étrangere
pour moi et la vie aussi
parce que j'ai passé
travers l'Himalaya
dedans le Tibet de la
la tranquillité éternelle
vienne-y tu aussi
où l'amour ne finit jamais
parce que l'amour est dieu
et dieu est l'amour

शाहदत

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 00:35:51 PDT

शा'यरों की शाहदत पीढ़ियों से यही है:
हम ज़माने से नहीं, ज़मान्ना हम से है

Shaving in Siliguri

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 11:01:23 PDT

There is, I suppose, a gruesome fascination
in watching blood spreading across shaving foam:
crimson then red then a dull, gory grey
washed off in hot water and a scar to remember.
But there is perhaps a wish it reminds one of —
blood oozing from a wrist slit with the shaving razor,
the eyes glued to the sight
and the heart beating excitedly till the sound stops
and the light dims, energy drained away like the Teesta:

the virgin Sikkimese stream now deflorated on the Terai,
pregnant with mud and moving zombie-like on the vast
emptiness of the dooars to her doom in the Brahmaputra.

But there is never time for thoughts of suicide –
the cockroached lodge room with its smelly blanket
and rattling fan is no romantic place to die –
and I have fifteen minutes to catch the Kanchan Kanya
leaving New Jalpaiguri at eight thirty-five.

Torn Urdu poster

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 10:23:59 PDT

Torn Urdu poster,
one word remains intact -
Mohabbat.

The Wanderer's Curse

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 04:14:44 PDT

I have the wanderer's curse upon me:
I will never go home,
For there is no home I have to go to,
Nor is the dust of the road my bed.
I claim not the sky for a roof nor
The sun for a lamp,
Yet the moon is my compass
And the stars my fellow-travellers.
I possess but rags and clogs and begging-bowl
And a mendicant's silvered tongue
My riches are the languages of the world
My legacy the memories of men.

a/c

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 22:45:16 PDT

lulling wind,
cloud diffused light;
office a/c entraps.