pseudo-sincerity
flows from their pores
as they invoke their deity’s name…
natural disasters
terrorism
war
famine
and other “evils”
are their favorite subjects for invocations
while…
corruption
poverty
injustice
exploitation
neglect
abuse
adultery
etc.
remain whispers in poorly illuminated halls of justice
Where should I take my body?
Now that the Moment has come.
Should I take it to the flames?
Or to be crushed by falling walls?
Or should I fly
For just a few seconds in this heavy life,
And hope the godless wind
Sets me gently down
On the river’s ever-rolling waves.
Pictures of the hurricane
wash across a television screen
with a diagram revolving
in one corner
showing red and yellow
energy like anger
that doesn’t care which way it goes.
A news anchor’s voice
is audible from the porch at a house
in dry country, whose monsoon
season is fading to a final
rumble from across
the mountains to the south
as hummingbirds around
suspended glass feeders
are constantly in motion. The Rufous
are pausing from migration
I want to help
Rain suffuses my perspective
I am caught where I am
Gazing at you
Whom I do not know but recognize–
Battered and indifferent
Fluttered like an absent twig
In Martian weather
All you see is empty sky
And a road so covered with debris
You don’t know where to begin
Or how to move forward
I am lucky to see things
Have them still
So I will help you
Clear paths
Create shelters
Stay warm
Until the storm calms
If it ever calms–
We will be strangers together.
With peacock pride Speaker Ryan reminisces,
Recalling memories of fellow keggers pissing,
Standing at urinals, dispelling their brews.
Back in the stalls some not holding their booze.
Trashing lessers who feed at public troughs,
His own entitlements not of the very same cloth,
The tax breaks and tuition he got at the time,
His later plans removed for those in their prime.
Most of us remember our moonlight reflections,
Sharing with others our romantic dejections,
Our cramming, then taking the bothersome tests,
The velvety lawn is lush and green,
free of crabgrass, dandelions or weeds.
“Warning!” announces a yellow sign.
“Lawn has been sprayed with Atrazine.”
A young couple sprawling on the grass
clad in tee shirts and cutoff jeans
gaze into one another’s eyes,
whispering sweet nothings,
smiling, blowing kisses, laughing.
Their heads move close together,
then closer, their lips touch.
I half expect to hear romantic music—
soft piano, mellow horns, violins—
like in love scenes in the movies,
Perhaps,
One of the main mistakes of my life
Was that I was born.
But I can assure you,
I could not help it.
I was not responsible.
This land is a mark on the forehead
A bullet yet to be drenched in red
Where death comes in split peels of seconds
Licking its bleached teeth tasting
Yet of yesterday's slaughters
And the world exhales a bad breath -
ROHINGYA
The world stares in SILENCE
That’s what they called it— a technical error, a “mistake,” the bombs that went astray during an attack in Sanaa, capital of Yemen. They were targeting rebels in a crowded neighborhood when they dropped their load on the house where Buthaina lived with her parents and siblings. A child of 4 or 5 now homeless and alone, her face profoundly[Read More...]
The websites of Frontier Weekly & Milansagar have collectively published some poetry in the Bangla language, all of which were written by Naxalbari activists of the 1970s, who were to lose their lives to state violence in that decade, on this page, where they have documented the works of nine such martyr-poets. Presented hereinbelow are translations of one poem each[Read More...]
