Autophony

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.

Kaveri

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 22:44:48 PDT

Idli, coffee, raghuvamsasudha,
the sun rises over
the Kaveri.

Fat man

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 22:44:15 PDT

Fat man sits
magnificently on wet bus seat;
badass confidence.

My soul just had a bath

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 07:57:22 PDT

My soul just had a bath.
Of the kind that has bubbles
and champage and a naked lover.
The moist warmth caressing the skin
and his breath cascading
down my neck;
the candles sputtering
orange, vermilion, azure
and that eruptive
tickle of his fingers

and those poems he reads
in that marijuana voice
to closed eyes; the pores
opening, the grime of
regret oozing out into the
rose-petal soaked ripples...

a few snatches of Traumerei
but I'm really not listening -
there are passions, recriminations,
fights, purulent regrets being
exorcised: by the water,
his presence, the flickering
lavender-scented light.

and there will be rain
and solitude afterwards,
wrapped in a blanket
my soul towelling off
into the dry, bright tubelit night.

A country is born

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Fri, 08 Jul 2011 08:32:10 PDT

There will be a new flag on the horizon tomorrow,

hoisting millions of strange new hopes,

new borders, stamps, coins, passports,

military badges, medals and other trinkets of state,

a source of effervescent, ephemeral pride,

cries of refreshing Uhuru.

Then reality - diplomatic gaffes,

little wars, treaties, negotiations.

The big countries' unwelcome patronisation.

All sorts of experts trooping in

to give advice overtly,

and a few covert threats.

Feed the poor, vaccinate babies,

build roads, kill mosquitoes,

placate rich taxpayers,

bury assassinated leaders,

balance budgets, sell oil, coal, minerals,

arrest some, release some,

educate children, find them jobs,

a thousand things to do.

No time for cutting cake.

Life will stagger on.

The flag, forgotten, will still fly

proudly upon the horizon.

ना उड़ सके न गिर सके

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 00:07:00 PDT

ज़िन्दगी जो मिली ज़रा हमें, ना जी सके ना मर सके,
पनपते मुर्झाते ख़्वाब यह बुनते, ना उड़ सके न गिर सके|

सोचा थी कि दौड़ लगाएँगे साहिल को मन्ज़िल बनाकर हम,
पर थम गए पहुँचते पहुँचते, ना उड़ सके न गिर सके|

ख़्वाबिदा महल जो बनाते फिरते थे अब्र-ए-बहार में हम,
बस रह गए ग़म परखते चुनते, ना उड़ सके न गिर सके|

कभी तरक्की से रिन्दा ख़ुद को जाविदा समझते थे हम,
अब कारागाह की दीवार खरोंचते, ना उड़ सके न गिर सके|

ना राह क़बूल ना गाह क़बूल, फिरते रहे 'ख़ाना बदोश' हम,
मुनतज़िर मौत की आवाज़ सुनते, ना उड़ सके न गिर सके|

زندگی جو ملی زرہ ہمےں ، نا جی سکے نا مر سکے ،
پنپتے مرجھاتے خواب یہ بُنتے ، نا اُڑ سکے نا گر سکے ۔

سوچا تھا دوڑ لگائنگے ساھل کو منزل بناکر ہم ،
پر تھم گئے پہنچتے پہھنچتے ، نا اُڑ سکے نا گر سکے ۔

خوابدآ محل جو بناتے پھرتے تھے ابر ی بحار مےں ہم ،
بس رہ گئے غم پرکھتے چنتے ، نا اُڑ سکے نا گر سکے ۔

کبھی ترقّی سے رندہ خد کو جاودا سمجھتے تھے ہم ،
اب کاراگاہ کی دیوار کھرونچتے ، نا اُڑ سکے نا گر سکے ۔

نا راہ قبوُل نا گاہ قبوُل ، پھرتے رہے خانا بدوش ہم
منتظر موت کی آواز سنتے ، نا اُڑ سکے نا گر سکے ۔ا

Ellipsis

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 05:20:33 PDT

An awkward unfinished-ness -
something left poignantly unsaid,
hanging, as if on a trembling lip
shrouded in shyness;
filled in mentally
with imagination, hyperbole,
or a wistful blankness;
leaving a burning desire
to know, to grasp;
a searing, evergreen wound
yearning for closure that never comes,
overrun by maggots
and festering putridly;
shrieking, throbbing, thrashing
for an emphatic end,
a finale, a dying and a burial;
but condemned like the Flying Dutchman,
or the bleeding Ashwatthama
to walk this earth bereft of succour:

the ellipsis.