Thursday, November 01, 2007

The Week

Seven poems compiled under this super-title. Each piece is based on a weekday.

(Of Weakness and its Relatives)

Samarthan was a man of imagined gift
To settle all human rift
From his squalid room of ragtag blinds
He advised all social kinds.

Sitting all day, he sucked on ciggies:
An unquenched fondness
For mamma mammal's mammaries,
Portrayed as grave deepness

No wonder then, the sheep flocked
Into his door never locked
They asked, they bargained, they took
Showering praise, his meat-hook

As and when he felt for own money
Hormones, home and taste
They assured him, he didn't need any
How could he, a God, go waste?

Somehow to him it sounded scriptural
With epic heroes, bonding ancestral
His life: a great sacrifice
Worldly comfort: shallow edifice

Thus he spent his Time, Samarthan
A self-made Nemesis
Till death a multi-marathon
Of imagined gift; and usefulness


You are not enough
I want more

Not for me granny's lullaby
I wanna rock

What's with your News, flatso?
Just tell me what's cool

Who cares for your Rural Brethren?
Give me Kareena's tips

Reassuring words of goodnight
Zzzzz! Sell me something!

Fauji Bhai, Vermicompost and Poetry
That's for Jats; and leftovers

But duets from the films are fine
And if you set them to Salsa

Wake up calls with Suprabhatam
What are you, a loser?

Your legacy, your language is fake
You're old, you're done

You are not enough.
I want more.

Frequency Modulation of a shifted pulse
Beating to the death throes of All India Radio


Sita Gita and Rita
Each a Senorita
Chota Mota and Hotta

Who to keep?
Who will weep?
Who will leap?

Sita want a Beta
Gita – a Sita-Heta
And Rita fulla Data

Put Sita in Royapettah
Make Gita mentally fittah
Get Rita a Computah

All fine Matrimony
Till Gita ate Antimony
Sita want More & Many
So Rita claim Alimony

What is this Mommy?
Couldn't it be easier, Trigamy?


Till, plant, sow, sweat
I built this nation:
A Democratic Republic no less
Sovereign with safe borders
A platform for every talent

My countrymen can tell the weather
As well as the next Tsunami
And ask the fisherfolk to stay
While the others are free
To take calls or make films

You know Raka, our village loafer?
He got a scholarship to study.
Good for him, he has the nerve
To make money; ok, at least
He runs the government

Some build bombs of importance
Too many produce children,
Who will continue the bloodlines.
Not all though, I am sad,
Get time off to play

Despite so many problems and gods
I feel we are a great country
With people, intelligence & freedom
Institutions & systems
Dreams, plans & capa...

Wait, what was I going to tell you?
Ah, yes! That this year too,
For all these fires in the bellies
We shall have food, for sure.

See, it's all done, it's all in place
The dams, canals, flyovers and SEZs
All we need now is a butterfly
To flap its wings in Brazil


Somehow it came to be, that
Felix from Guatemala
And Swathi from Srisailam
Ended up as neighbours

Felix, he loved her at once
While Swathi shrank in horror
But they had to co-exist
Somehow, in this strange country

They had tough laws and rules
Because of which Felix couldn't
Enter Swathi's home,
For which she was grateful

Felix was restless, he felt caged
And discussed this with Liu
A common friend of theirs
Who was on both their sides

Swathi felt outraged too; to top it,
A daily jamboree of locals
Would stare and laugh at them.
Were they linking us up?

Liu was a man of means, so
Accordingly, he arranged
"A-bird-a-day" for Felix, thus
Relieving Swathi from his advances

But it was all going nowhere
The Promised Land was barren.
Although Liu took good care,
They were both better off back home

Slowly it began to show on them:
Felix lost interest in birds;
Swathi now cuddled against him;
But there was no spark, only ennui

They no longer cared for the locals
Who, because they were home,
Would first laugh and then wonder
Why these were such losers

This was not acceptable to Liu;
No doubt he was their friend
But he had his word to keep
Of making something out of everybody

So one evening he came calling
They didn't understand what he meant
But out of habit, they trusted him
And went.

The locals knew, of goings-on of the Zoo
That Felix, the Guatemalan Wild Cat
And Swathi, the Indian Peacock
Went on Liu's Special Menu as Exotic Fries


Mukteshwar drank to his heart
Because Seenu poured it out
Tarannum, from lack of art
Had called him "Useless Lout"

Seenu a most-travelled man
With his cooking kit
From Minnesota to Bodhan
Feeding every film unit

So what if the rum spilt
He reminisced in pain
Wasn't it the table's guilt
Slipping its legs in rain
(Stupid weak table, he added)

The crowd lost it on TV
Real Madrid's one up
But it don't matter to his CV
This glittering European Cup

Tarannum had begged him, the wannabe
"Bistar Bichaoo?"
Now she (s)pouts in fame and cannabis
"Bastar Bachao!"

Mukteshwar chuckled and drank
To Seenu's technicolor prints
For, as The Family's think-tank
He had left his own testicular imprints


The tiny settlement of Chikka Shirasi
At once shot to fame
On account of a name
Tagged to Thimmu Doorvasi

"How the...?", the world wondered,
Could he make a statue grow?
Did he have God in tow?
They came, they saw and pondered

Though no one could penetrate,
Twas very much true
That the statue grew
Exactly at the universal human rate

The Powers set off bids for this piece
First to investigate
Then to dictate
But Thimmu stood firm, saying "Go Please"

This from a penniless native carver
Was too much, an insult.
Science can't be occult!
Nor can Thimmu, a torchbearer

So everyone argued, everyone fought
From Sydney to Budapest
Some for and some against
But none had Bahadur's this thought

He went and coaxed Thimmu's wife
With attention and sarees
And once, with his worries,
Into revealing the secret so rife

To be honest, she told all she knew
And that was all too
Thimmu could do
Of this desire in his blood and every sinew

He carved toys and the toys sold
Though they were his
They were not his
Was the sentiment that hit him cold

See Shyamala, he cried to his wife
This can't go on, I'll make a son
Our own, my next generation
And then, to a piece of wood, he gave his life

1 comment:

The Somnambulist said...

nice.. I quite liked all except monday. Will keep reading...