poetry

this star-spangled catalyst
for freedom of expression
has created a national uproar
like religion
it mimics an opiate
deadening the psycho-social affects
of climate change
natural disasters
and the fear of nuclear war

Why, does it sound awkward when,
Puffing my chest with good will,
I stand up, adopt a fierce gait
And open my mouth
To roar, just like a raging lioness?
Does it make of me, an object
Meant to be analyzed on all sides,
To be labelled, to be mocked
To be ridiculed, to be judged
To be assessed and to be forced
To Shut Up?
Pray, I am, like the rest of my peers
Even if they be males, thus, bolder
By nature and instinct
And stronger by life’s choice
Yes, I am like the rest, I have, in me

There is no substitute for winning
football games and wars.
We are strong and brave,
having been taught winning
is what counts after all.
After all, after all the weeks of sweat,
practice after practice, play after play,
men of strength will win, be honored.
Losers, lacking muscle fight heart
eyes limbs guts and blood
will lose.
So will the children.
Oh the children. Be men, be strong.
Let us not now praise
a man, a man’s man,
a coach of real men,
whose religion was winning Christianity,

The National Poetry Library is collecting poems written in endangered languages to help preserve them for future generations
The post Project aims to preserve dying languages through poetry appeared first on Positive News.

Load your revolvers with our blood
While we spill you back with words of truth
Bare as the rising sun
You are a mere coward
Faceless as the night
While we are the shifting names that change to resist
Dabholkar, Kalburgi, Pansare, Gauri
The trail of fire is lit
Aim and Shoot

Big Promises, Big Claims
You have often made
But each of these
Have turned out to be fake

This song is for Agartala-based journalist Shantanu Bhowmik who fell last Wednesday to the marauding wrath of Hindutva-Fascist forces who are stirring race-violence based on historical indignations and inequities in Tripura today

She was sitting at the front of the carriage,
with a little lapdog on a folded blanket
upon the seat next to her.
The train jerked to a halt
at the country station of Ivybridge.
The Ticket Inspector
stooped and picked up the travel bag
from down by her feet,
banged the lit-up ‘Open’ button
by the top side of the door,
stepped out and put it down
upon the platform, returning instantly.
“You need to exit the train, madam,
and wait for the next one,
it’ll be here in 45 minutes.

There was a day
It was still called Cathay
By those in the West
Who travelled that way
Silk and tea
Porcelain and spice
They brought us
spaghetti
We even took rice.
For centuries
We bought there
Things we don’t need
Brought for those
Whose moral was greed
The rice we still eat
The tea we still drink
But with preference
For substances
By which we don’t think.
They sold us their goods
For silver we stole
We blasted their ports
Filled their cities with holes

I heard the oxygen machine humming
on the other end of the line
from the opposite side of the country
as your daughter (my aunt)
held the phone to your ear
so I could say a final goodbye
while the morphine continually dripped
to ease away the pain
you’d been fighting for ages.
Let it never be said
that a soldier
can’t also be an angel.
You served your time
faithfully here on earth
and have now been called back to heaven
to receive your rightful honors.
I’ve been through this process before