iss Khamoshee-e-jabr ki himmat-e-surKhi
lazzat ka bhi hota hai koi shoKh Thikana?
labraiz hui Khaak, uRti hui num dhool
ilhaam ki masti hai zabardast bahana
lutf-e-rooh-e-lamhay ka khaTakna yuN jhapaT ker
yeh kafir ki wuzoo hai ya ke mumin ka behk jaana?
punctured song catches smog
of loose leaflets cindered
to dust of alphabets; verb
matches verb in assembly;
root of form touts root of
acorns wed out of necessity.
ruptured song catches wilful
brassy adjective leaded with
soul of math; figures that
fuel form of love, of cash.
The seep of time is the rot of it
Grip out a handful of song & sing
Twice the multiplication, thrice
Here the impossible union
of spheres of existence is actual,
Here the past and future
Are conquered, and reconciled – “The Dry Salvages”, T.S. Eliot
Dawn reeks of peopled sun, hearkening
red to a village voice, cast out of
now, hearkening red to pillaged joice.
Claw specks of mottled sun, brothering
inch of a shucked tryst, cast out of
now, brothering inch of outgunned fist.
Guff hums of gavelled sun, ushering
ruck of animate scale, cast out of
now, ushering ruck of common frail.
If this is my body
would it not follow my will?
If this is your body
would it not follow your will?
Obviously, it is neither your body
it is the fickle body
of the burning world you made,
(Dasimayya; translated by A.K. Ramanujan)
This is not to say that time and being are
Corpuscles of a tinier, simpler time-being.
It does not follow that the body of error
Is torn by sub-errors by sub-fools in sub-time.
The ravishment of deed is time; it is being.
It is but a remnant of the fabric of thus-ness.
agriculture gave surplus time which gave war
& poetry & god &
the android; some prefer the iphone,
but the choice is false:
the hunter-gatherer never chose to farm.
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light" - Dylan Thomas
Rage too against the silence
goading dull obeisance to creep
of power, a practised diligence
to shun the ear when the mynah
cries its cry; the mountain weary
of the eagle soar, strains to hear
the treetop chirps, longs to mingle
with earth that grounds.
"Tonight, you grow fire
In your home; the hearth is warmer than
It was day before, and the heat is some
Tell me, o bearer of the bard's timeless
Residues, the starkness of what remains,
Endures. Tell me too, o quills that ink
The shores of pain, of destitute growth
"Tomorrow's morrow is now past."
The temple grounded, the sword sheathed, the
Fill of land is for the maker's glory, and
Fuel for the till.
"Cull your seamstress vows,
Pulverize the atoms of your being, the order
Of light is now of silent gratitude."
The worms of time look about and confer with
The muse of the forest, the news of night;
The loose ground will shift in preparation.
"Did I mention the glories and
Speak of the stains?"
No matter now, the glory, the stain, the dim
Flames from the hearth are programmed to keep
Your fellowship warm.
should the sharded anklet go
home where no names are spoken
or out in the open where sulfurous
kannagi, livid, goes a routin’?
can the caste out voice speak at
all in a room full of tenors
rasping out airs – heirs of plumped
entitlement and closed spaces?
would the sunken claw out and
Kannagi is the avenging widow from the Tamil epic Silappatikaram (‘The tale of an anklet’).
bark, bereft of sun, unmoored
and short of tooth, of bite?
kannagi, livid, ekes out smoke.
“ilmooN bus kareeN o yaar
ikko alif teray darkaar” – Bulleh Shah