Friday, August 29, 2008

I want to make you weep





As a poet, I want to make you weep
may be its a duty officiated to me.
One day I came to Arhus to see a sea gull
run down by a callous wheel,
as a traveller my fastidiousness did
not bend down to mend those broken
wings, their flaps like choir, I heard
from old fairy tales which I pass
from one son to next like acne,
a birth mark or skin colour,
I stood and watched the bird
bloom like a carrion flower on the
tarmac as cars screeched past the streets


I want to make you weep for
I did not see the Tollund man
but heard Hamlet's tale, not a sorrowful one,
and saw his tomb faked on stone, a tourist
fetish hewn on a sprawling field
ploughed for winter crops. Rosenholm,
where Rosencrantz lived with his
splendid sons, opened to a room
where he slept alone or in company
my guide didn't say. The tapestried
wall where virgin blood curdled to
impenetrable mortar hid the secret
of his daughter's forbidden love,
hidden in her womb, her sacrifice
shielded the nobility's want for honour.
She may be walking the corridors
even now yelling her lover's name,
pleading to her father not to kill*.

They told me that Rose and Gulid
were neither crazy nor guiless and
old Hamlet lived a good six-hundred
years ahead, hale and hearty after killing
his father's killer and I loved the crafty
bard yet again, only wicked men can weave
moving tales from quotidian life, take me,
rife with tales of bullets from the hills,
a sack full of granny's lies, only I can
mix them, like an 'pothecary or a witch
call what ever you may, in a cauldron
of truths and lies in small proportions to
make a credible potion of verse. When I look
at the mirror after that, I see that
I do look a witch with a bulbous nose,
thin lips that curl to smirks or smiles
at my will with matching eyes that plead

but, I think I wanted to make you weep!

* Rosenholm, Rosencrantz's castle, was built in tune with the Danish superstition of sacrificing virgin blood as a symbol of sustaining the impenetrability in a newly build castle. For Rosenholm, Rosencrantz's daughter's blood was sacrificed to fortify its walls, but the inside secret was the fact that she was killed because she was pregnant with her lover's child. The castle is believed to be haunted by her even now.

A Nightmare come True in Denmark

Not the skin hues, not alienation or the angst of existing, not the neatness or the technological traps or gadgets that deceive at a click, like the toilet latch that turns green and red, in and out of danger, not the reign of reason not the smoking six-something who looked Arab and Somalian, not the smooching couples on the streets, whose passion grows on approaching steps or racist riles, I love my colour I dare say, like I love my hair, or eyes, a little narcissism looks good on me like the red saree i wear and definitely not the food, the way i wolfed down cured ham with relish, and salads swathed in cream, cheese and mayonnaise makes my mouth water for more.

But all i dreaded was the paper, rolls of paper in the loo, its rough chafing on my rear and the memory of water on my skin.At last I did it! I papered my rear with an ease, and sat with unease, tensile on a soft seat, like a bird ready to fly, trying to overcome my traveller's block of wiping my smalls with a piece of paper :-)

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

it's a silent August.
at night flowers
dont bloom, the air
smells of waiting.
you are stealthy
to invade me
I do not see
you but i feel
your joy and sad
misty evenings

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