Hello folks,
so these three poems got published in a print anthology called Culture Cult in the 'Nocturne' issue edited by Jay Chakravarti in September last year. Here you go!
Exile : An Ode to My
Happy Place
It is a wound, ceaselessly burning, that no
medicine can ever heal.
You cannot speak about it in the first person.
I tried. I couldn’t.
It is in my bloodstream. It is in my silences
when I look away. It is in my hot secret tears. It is rarely in my speech.
Sometimes I try to distance it while speaking,
jocularly, like a face painted masked clown at the circus
Because how else do I speak that which is too
intimate for speech
That with which my pulse and heartbeat throbs
night and day
That which is tattooed on my heart skin soul
with indelible ink
That which I live in my dreams when I cannot
in reality
That which is mine, with me always, no matter
how far away I am from it
That which I always hold magical memories
of,
No matter how bitter the hurt, how devastating
the grief
O beautiful wondrous place, you are precious,
you are loved
You are mine, you are forever
home.
Grief
It is a
thin, translucent lining
Wrapping
itself around various
Organs.
It forms the inner lining
Of the
gut, of the colon, it covers
The
limbs and the breasts. It thickens
Around
the heart like a protecting wall.
At the
corners of the eyes, it dissolves
Into
tear drops. It pains at the joints,
like
rheumatism. It is delicate
as
spiderweb, and is easily perforated.
Sword-words
are fatal. Dealt with such weapons
It
shudders, shakes and violently trembles
Threatening
to collapse and turn you into
Non-being.
Even pin-prick words and
Hasty clumsy
words can be fatal.
The
membrane is fragile, and needs
Special
care in a hospital. Rough and rude
Knocks
produce agitations. The membrane
Of
grief is tired of being perforated.
It
wants a sterilized space to recuperate.
The
membrane will become a wall.
The
membrane will not allow
Perforations.
The membrane
Will
close into itself like a field
That
lies fallow. The membrane will stop
Trying
to interact with beings
In
outer space. The membrane
Will
preserve itself like pickle or jelly.
It will
learn (regardless of the pain) the art
Of
wearing masks, which come undone
Only in
solitude.
My anger is rising like the
swelling Brahmaputra in Assam
Flooding its banks,
drowning, destroying everything in sight
My anger is like the bloody
sunset on the river
Glorious, ferocious,
burning, sinking only to rise again
Nature’s fury is as
merciless as man’s against nature.
My anger is rising like the
swelling Brahmaputra in Assam
Anger at politicians
touring luxury Assamese resorts
While commoners, sighing
dying, make another trip, Pay lives as cost
Angry that those with fake
histories and forged marksheets
Serve protesting Miya poets
with chargesheets
Those with fake
qualifications and degrees
Expect the precarious poor
to produce proof for NRC
Angry that parents kill
their own children
For the honour of a girl or
an inter caste union
Angry that sewers reveal
dead Dalit body parts
We have reached the moon but
not their hearts
Once, we had unity in
diversity
Today, hearts divided, only
relics of unity
My anger is rising like the
swelling Brahmaputra in Assam
Temples of solid gold,
opulent towers, masterpieces
Farmers dying, children
starving, death in the gutter, death in the penis
Angry that little children
die crying for food
that rapists go scot free
and girls are abused
Angry that workers are
humiliated with cruelty
When corporates are
culprits, criminals with impunity
Angry that lakhs of
mangroves are cut down
For a new metro station, or
a tinsel town
Angry that we learnt of
lynchings from Alice Walker
Today’s children must cry
“Oh no! Not another!”
Angry that cows and people
alike are used as pawns
For evil machinations with
no sign of a dawn
My anger is rising like the
swelling Brahmaputra in Assam
With the force of Kerala’s
floods, Chennai’s tsunami and Odisha’sFani
Like a dancing serpent
raising his hood
As my anger reaches epic
proportions
This poem remains
castrated, impotent, no promise of fruition
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