Friday, March 31, 2006

Are we all alone in the universe?

Are we all alone in the universe?
Could there be somewhere
People like us or just like us

Never real like ourselves?
When it’s summer, we want winter.
When winter comes, we want summer.

The rich give up money for love.
The poor give up love for money.
Still both are always unhappy.

The ego-less burst with egos.
The holy are most unholy.
The lovers of peace fight.

The politicians hunger for power.
They love unearned money.
They fail peoples’ trust like prostitutes.

The rich are most greedy.
The poor are most needy,
No one cares for them.

The preachers are unreal.
They love praise and money,
They are the most phony.

Only few have thinking brains,
Others brains go to drains
Reading their godly texts.

If there is life
Somewhere in the universe,
I pray they be not like us.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Is it fate or what is it?

Some people walk
straight into success.
Whatever they do
turns out to be right.
They get what they wish
without much effort or fight.

I walked on twisted paths.
A myriad things in life I did.
Nothing turned out to be right.
Whatever I wanted, I never got

Is it fate or what is it?
I never could understand.
Perhaps there’s a Gaussian curve
For payouts in this world.
And I happened to be
On the wrong side of the curve.

Sometime I wish I could hate you

Your hair gray
Your teeth gone
Still you love
A pouch of tobacco
And spit everywhere.

Bowed back
You cannot stand or walk.
Shaky arms
You cannot hold a spoon.

Cataracts block the light.
Your ears cannot hear.
We wait hand and foot
On you everyday.
And yet
You complain
No one loves you.

Mama, why are
You so bitter?
Sometime I wish
I could hate you.
Can’t you see
I love you?

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Is it ok to kiss on the first date?

An Americanized, so to say, Indian girl asks:
Is it ok to kiss on the first date?
O poor girl, you’re neither here nor there
But hanging midway between bhumi and akash
Like that Indian god stuck midway on his way to paradise.

If you are more American than Indian,
You will have to kiss many frogs
Before your prince charming comes along.
Otherwise, don’t kiss, don’t muskrar
Don’t jhapphi maar, don’t bistar par laat maar.
One day a charming maharaja will come along.

God and Women

God, why do you make fools of us?
You go to a virgin to conceive her
And send us your son to save us
From the sin of the first lady on Earth.

You send us a milk man’s son
Who pleases milk maids dancing with them
And says he is God himself.
So you do play with virgins, God. Don’t you?

You send an angel to a prophet
Who marries many women.
Four woman a man can have, he says.
Are you not a sexy beast, God?

Last night I was late

Last night I was late.
Meetings and deadlines
I had to make.
You were sleeping.
Your hair brushed,
Silky to touch,
Falling on your face.

The book of poems
Still in your hands.
A note saying:
”I miss you, my love,
Promise me
Never to be late.
I stayed awake
Past midnight,
Waiting for you
Reading your
Love poems.
Good night, my darling,
I love you, I love you.”

Your angelic face
Took my breath away.
Gently lifting your curls
I kissed your face.
I love you too, my darling.
I promise you
I’ll never be late again.

I kept on saying again and again.

He asks me if I believe in God

My dad is now stalking horses.
He sleeps alone downstairs on sofa.
He says my mom snores all night.

But he cannot sleep.
He gets up and smokes
Many times a night.
I say nothing.

He is old, not far from death.
He wants to keep peace with God,
And is not sure about God.

Perhaps he's trying
To make sense out of life.
He asks me if I believe in God.

My beliefs are pedestrian.
When we are dead, we are dead.
And will not know if once we lived.

But what we did and said,
Lives on affecting others
To whom what we did and said.

A life worth living -
Even when we’re are gone
For someone to reap after our death.

Yet, I speak to God and ask:
When this summer is gone,
Will I have another one?


Note: Based on a blog of Jan Osman at
http://www.sulekha.com/groups/postdisplay.aspx?cid=641116&forumid=756919

He and his crony

There is an axis of evil there.
We will destroy them, he says.

Yes, yes. We will.
His crony says.

There are weapons
Of mass destruction there.
We will destroy them, he says.

Yes, yes. We will.
His crony says

We found no weapons
Of mass destruction.
But we made no mistake, he says

Yes, yes. We made no mistake.
His crony says.

But we attacked them anyway.
We killed them, maimed them,
To liberate them, he says.

Yes, yes. To liberate them.
His crony says.

Why he and his crony say
Whatever they wish to say?

Why is the world deaf and dumb
And lets them say what they wish to say?

The sword used to be mightier than brain.
Have we gone back to those times again?

One faith, one God

There is only one God.
He is almighty.
He knows every thing.

He spoke to many, but told
Lies to all except Gabriel
Whom he told all true things.

So rest is crap, worth not a scrap
Of a paper on which others
Wrote all other unholy things.

Adam, the first gentleman

Adam, the first gentleman
Made love to the first lady Eve.
And came Cain.

Adam made love to Eve again.
Then came Abe.
Later Cain killed Abe.

Cain married a woman he knew.
Wait. Where from she came?
For in the beginning was Adam

And from his rib Eve came.
Whose rib was it, whose foot was it,
From which the wife of Cain came?

Love’s Desire

Kiss me on my lips,
For more delightful than
Sips of wine is your kiss.

Like perfume is your name,
Spreading everywhere.
That’s why maidens love you.

I will follow you eagerly.
Take me to your chambers now.
With you I wish to please

To exult and extol your love.
Love finer than wine,
Love that’s beyond love.


A free verse rendering of Chapter 1
Of Songs of Songs in Bible

I am a lily of the valley

I am a flower, a narcissus.
I am a lily of the valley.
A lily among thorns,
Like my lover is among women.

Like an apple tree in the woods
Is my lover among men.
I delight in resting in his shadow.
His fruit is sweet to my lips.

He takes me to the feast.
He showers me with love.
He feeds me raisin cakes
And with apples he refreshes me.

If I faint in love,
He places his right hand
Under my head. And he
Embraces me with his left,
Holding me tight to himself.

O daughters of Jerusalem!
I earnestly ask you -
Do not stir up in love,
Before it’s time for love.


A free verse rendering of Chapter 2
Of Songs of Songs in the Bible.

I desired my lover

I desired my lover
In my bed last night.
He was not there,
But my heart belongs to him.

I rose early and went seraching
In the streets and the crossings.
But I did not find him.
My heart belongs to him.

I came upon the watchman
Making rounds of the city.
I asked him if he had seen the one
To whom my heart belongs.

Soon after I found him.
Took hold of him.
And did not let him go till
To my mom’s home I took him.

O daughters of Jerusalem!
I earnestly beseech you -
Do not stir up in love,
Before it’s time for love.

A free verse rendering of chapter 3
Of Songs of Songs in Bible.

My lover is mine

Where has you lover gone,
O most beautiful of all women?
Where has your love gone,
let’s help you find him.

My lover has gone
to the garden, to the beds
of spice. To browse and
gather lilies for me.

My lover is mine
and I am his. He loves
to browse among lilies.


A rendering of a song in
Songs of Songs, Bible, Chapter 6

Poetry in Politics

The relations with, uhh--
Europe are important relations,
and they've, uhh —
because, we do share values.

And, they're universal values,
they're not American values
or, you know, European values,
they're universal values.

And those values, uhh--
being universal,
ought to be applied everywhere.

~George W. Bush
at a press conference with European Union
dignitaries, Washington, D.C., June 20, 2005

He is a shy baby

Everyday he comes
to say good morning
and at five he wishes me
good evening

During the day
he finds pretexts
to dilly-dally around my desk.
He likes me, I know

But he does not know
How to ask me out.
He is a shy baby.
I am going to get him.

Fancy, why I love wintry days

The pillow is soft under my head,
I feel your warmth in my arms.
It is a wintry day on Sunday,
We want to linger on in the bed.

It’s cloudy and windy out side,
With showers of snows and rains.
The streets are quiet, I only hear
The splatter of rain against window panes.

We will have our Philly cheese bagel
And our coffee in the bed. We will
Get under our comforter; hug, kiss,
Feel each other and make love all day.

In the evening by the fire place,
We will sit and sip red wine -
A bottle of burgundy from Bordeaux
And Merlot from west coast vines.

We will listen to Mozart and Vivaldi,
We will watch a movie on CD,
We will talk love talks and
I'll jump into bed with my darling

To bite her neck, to give her kisses,
To press her breasts against my chest,
To fondle her and make love to her
All night, over and over again.

Fancy, why I love wintry days.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Night of Honeymoon

It will be the night
Of dreams of his youth
When he sees his bride.
She’ll be sitting on a bed in the suite,
In a pink choli and a red silken sari
Flowered with golden threads
On the borders, matching her choli.
All fresh and perfumed,
Rouge on her cheeks,
Mascara on lashes,
A red dot on her forehead,
A locket in the parting of her hair
Red bangles on her wrists,
A gold necklace shining with diamonds
And gems around her neck.
Garlands of roses,
Of dahlia and marigold
Will be hanging along the bed posts.
The room will be dimly lit.
A smoldering incense stick,
Some sweets, flowers and fruits
Will be on the table,
Next to the bed
Of bride and groom.

When he enters the suite,
She will not lift her gaze,
She will continue staring
Her red manicured nails.
Their hearts will beat a little faster
And deep breaths they will take.

They never did converse
Before. He will say words of love,
Words of endearment:
Hi, my dear, my beautiful bride,
Look at me, why don't
You say a word to me.

She will try to keep her head
Bent towards her knees
Shying away from him
And proving she is
So innocent, so pure.

On their first night together,
Two strangers who never met,
Never shared a word before,
Will fall in love forever for life.

Man is dead before he is born

The movie maker thinks
of bizarre things.
Today he said,
How can you know me,
I do not really exist.
I am but a whiff
of conscience
spread across the universe
.

He is busy
shooting films
day and night.
But on his breaks
he takes a piss
and talks a lot
of horse shit:
like there is no space,
there is no time,
man is dead before he is born.

But he does not tell how
anything could happen
without space and time.
For him everything is
an unending
limitless continuum
of something, something
he calls superconscious –
a supernatural entity
that is in itself is itself,
that is what
Hindus call That.
So that is That
is all That.
That is why
He does not exist.
That is why
we cannot know him.
Like God.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Waiting to give you a rose

Can’t you see, can’t you tell –
The way you look at me and smile,
In your heart wanting me –
My heart melts for you
And I desire you, I desire you…

I wish I could grab you,
Hold you in a tight hug,
Give you a passionate kiss,
And tell you: I’d love
To have you, to have you…

I will be tonight at seven
Corner of Cathedral and Broadway,
Waiting to give you a rose
And to tell you I love you.
Be there at seven, sharp.

Make love to me tonight

Kiss me, kiss me
Hold me tight
I am crazy for you
Make love to me tonight

Bite my neck
Whisper love words
Lose your breath
Making love to me tonight

Once won’t be enough
I want it over and over
All thorough the night
Many times

I am restless
Burning in passion
I can’t wait
Cool me down tonight

Make love, yes darling
Make love to me tonight
Holding me tight
Showering me with kisses

Of love, fondling me,
Playing with my breasts
Changing positions as
You like, as I like, all night

Once won’t be enough
I want it over and over
All thorough the night
Many times

An Homage to King Menkure and His Bride

The Egyptian King Mencure
And his lovely bride,
(Perhaps one of his many wives)
Pose, standing side by side.

His chest is bare,
A cap on his hair,
With flaps falling
Down on ears in a pair.
What’s on his chin-a goatee?
Scanty loincloth
Wrapped around his waist
Kept by a belt in its place.
What’s that funny underwear—
A flappy rectangle hanging there
Covering his genitals?
His arms hang onto his sides.
A stern look in his eyes.
Bare legs and feet,
Looks healthy like a bull.

His beautiful bride
Is standing on his side,
Showing her bare lovely breasts.
She is nude except her half-panties.
Her long hair falls on her breasts.
His cap-flaps, her hair, match in style.
Her right arms goes around his waist.
Her left arm, elbow bent, traces her torso,
Reaching his bare biceps.
She is beaming with love,
Embracing him thus.

Her subdued smile,
Her raised cheeks,
(is she hiding her giggling?)
She's as if bubbling in love.
Her crescent eyes,
Look straight into your eyes.
Happy to be the King’s bride,
She can’t hide her pride.
She wants to let the world
And all his other wives know,
in this show of love:
He loves me. He's all mine.

Note: Inspired by a photograph of an
ancient, circa 2490 B.C., Egyptian sculptor
of King Menkure and his bride.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

A Love Duet

She -
Do you remember long ago
Under an oak tree
You promised me your love
And I gave myself to you…

He -
Do you remember long ago
When I met you
I could not keep
My eyes off you
And I fell in love…

Both -
Yes I remember
I remember,
I fell instantly in love
I still love you my darling
You are my life
My sweetheart…

She -
Do you remember our wedding day
When I was in white
You were all smiles
Nodding you head saying:
I do, I do

He -
Do you remember our wedding night
I carried you in my arms
We stayed awake all night
Drinking champagne
And making love...

Both -
Do you remember long ago,
Under the oak tree
You promised me your love
And I gave myself to you…

Both -
Do you remember long ago
When I met you
I could not keep
My eyes off you
And I fell in love…

I cannot sleep tonight

You’re now boarding your flight,
You will be here tomorrow,
With me, in my arms.

Lying in bed,
Seeing your photos,
I cannot sleep tonight.

The moment I see you,
I will run to you,
Kissing you I’ll give you a rose.

It has been so long
I’ve not touched you,
Kissed you, held you
Against my breasts.

I am lying in bed,
Thinking of you.
I cannot sleep tonight.

You are goddamn dumb

Mysteries of sickness are many fold:
In fact so many, they are untold.
Even if there’s no mystery

A mystic self-help guru
Wants you to believe it’s mystery,
So that he can help you.

You are goddamn dumb,
If you’ve nothing better to do
Than hoping to get sick and die.

If you invoke sickness
To end your life,
You’re a sicko sissy.
You don't deserve a life.

But if your doc finds
Why you are really sick,
You'll get sicker and sicker

And die in days, very quicker,
Going to mystic medics,
For some quick fix.

So what's the mystery?
There's no mystery.
Any bull-shit can be
A mystery, if you believe in it.

Andy, the farm hand

Today I talked to Andy, the farm hand.
Mid-fities, slim, front teeth chipped,
Hornets basket-ball cap on his head,
Face wrinked like dry desert dates.

He was in Wrangler jeans,
Angus Farms embossed his shirt.
“Why do you carry so many keys, Andy,
dangling from your belt?” I asked.

“I have a key to every room,
every barn in the farm.
my boss trusts me even for a stalk of hay
and he is so smart he can make

a buck out of a half-penny,” said he.
Andy hauls heifers from the farm
to the local stock yard every month,
about twenty in a truck load.

Each head sells for about
four to five hundred bucks
and thus it brings home
about a thousand bucks

he deciphered this figure
squinting his eyes,
scratching his head.
“Wow, really!” I said.

“Yes, my boss is very smart,
he can make a buck
out of a half-penny.” he said,
smilingly again sheepishly.

“ I am blessed. I love my job,
my boss and my family.
I want not much in life.”
he went on to say. “You are a
happy man, Andie.” I told him smilingly.

He reaffirmed my faith:
Living not wanting is happiness.
Not screwing your head is happiness.
Throwing you worries to the winds is happiness.
Happiness is when you do not look for happiness.

Friday, March 24, 2006

The Earth Is Flat

Though it seems strange,
But in the Old Testament
Everything is very clear-
The Earth is flat.
Above us a dome, a firmament.
Above that, the Heaven,
Where God lives.
Under our feet,
Beneath the ground
Water, water everywhere.
Flat Earth stands on many pillars,
Standing in the water.
Standing on what, don't ask.
When good people die,
They go upward to heaven.
When bad people die
They go downward to hell.
Is there anything more?
I don't know. Don't ask
Amen! Amen!

from Which One Is Your God?
http://ravikopra.blogspot.com/2005/12/which-one-is-your-god-ravi-kopra.html

For My Hispanic and Latino Friends

Por Mi Amigos Hispanico Y Latino

Dear amigo, do not shy away,
Do not hide from me,
Do not feel you’re
Below any one of us.

We are all alike,
We too like mariachi,
Burritos and tostodas,
Cerveza and margaritas.

Your culture is rich,
Richer than our ours.
You family ties put
Rest of us to shame.

For your love por madre y padre,
y esposo o esposa,
tios y tias,
ninos y ninas,
I salute you.

I see you with your family,
All members young and old.
All small and tall,
Picnicking in parks

Shopping in malls,
Banking in banks,
Together for a stroll.
If someone is sick

You all together stick,
Visiting the doc,
Waiting for hours in halls.
For that too I salute you.

You know how to live -
Siestas - you take life easy.
You know how to love,
So passionate in blood.

Your poetry of romance,
No one can write better.
Octavio Paz, Gabriel Marquez
Carlos Fuentes, Pablo Neruda
I salute them all.

Our lips will meet one day

I listen to every word you say,
I read every word you write,
I see how your eyes shine
When you smile at me.

I know you want to know me,
Quietly you want to see me.
You do not know how to say,
You are looking for a way.

Dear debonair charming love,
I am feeling the same way.
Let’s hold dear our love,
Our lips will meet one day.

Mad Verse of a Mad man

Dear Gawd
You know I am mad
That’s all that matters

What others say
I'm sane or insane
Who cares!

Let me be mad
In my pad
Clad or unclad

Sometimes it's a fad
To call oneself mad
But I'm really mad

I have had
To be a dad
Of my bad lad

Me and my dad
Me and my lad
We all are mad

Mad make mad
I made my mad
Is that not enough Gawd?

Like your trinity
We are a trinity
I’m at the center
Just like you, Gawd

You live in the heaven
I live on the earth
But I’ll inherit

The kingdom of mad.
No? Say something, Gawd.
Now you are making me mad

I love you Gawd
I love my dad
I love my lad
Though we’re all mad

What others say
I'm sane or insane
Who cares!

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Memories Of First Love

Monsoons bring back
His sweet memories:
Love chats
Walking in the rains
On side walks
Hand in hand,
Smiling, teasing
Hugging, kissing
Seeing in clouds
Lovers loving.

My cell phone rings.
No, it is not him,
Some other guy.
But I want him,
In my heart
His memory rings.
I want to undress
Not fully
In choli and bikini only
And I want to stroll
In the rains with him.

Mirabai remembered
The Dark One
In the months of Monsoon.
I remember him now
And desire him
Again and again.

Ah! no lover now.
I am all lone,
I’m dreaming of him.
I will go out
Walking in the rain
Thinking of him now.

I remember throwing
At each other
Pieces of chalks,
Sitting in the school veranda,
Waiting for downpours to stop.

Time has washed
Other memories
But monsoon washes afresh
His sweet memory,
Once again.
He was my class mate
My first love
My heart now throbs in pain.

I keep walking
Hypnotically,
The ground shakes
I cling to the rocks
To the branches of bushes.
I hear a voice
Singing in me:
First love
First love
You cannot forget
First love
.

I do not leave him
He lives in me.
An opening in the skies
Clouds receding
Now a breeze blowing.
Wet in the rains
I am wet thinking of him.

Note: Inspired by a story at Sulekha.

Vicarious Love

If inside you miss your old lover
unforgettable how he made love –
Those passionate kisses
Those embraces
Those feelings warming your heart –
Now sleeping with someone new
Inside you feel your old love –
You see him making love to you
You hear his loving whispers
You think of his gentle touch
You think of how he aroused you
And moving inside you first gently
Then fiercely brought you to your climax –
Don’t feel resigned you’re betraying.
You are still celebrating your old love.

Some women love everything

The old-fashioned
Just lies there. Sex is
No pleasure to her.

The sly one pretends
Passions and pleasures --
All cockaloopy, all made up.

Some women love everything --
Feelings and cuddlings.
But turn you away
When you want to mount them.

Then the hard sort, the devil,
Like my wife, brings off everything.
They’re the bossy ones.

Then the cold sort, dead,
All dead inside.
And she knows she's dead.

Finally the Lesbian
Puts you out before you come
And writhes her loins against your thighs.

Some men may like
One of these types.
But I hate them, all in all.


Note: A rendition of a prose passage
in Lady Chatterley’s Lover of D.H. Lawrence

Ah! man’s coition

Ah! man’s coition,
How ironic, mocking, comic—
Man lying on top of woman

Man, the master of the world
Man, the great fighting cock
Subjugating her, dominating her

He triumphs cruelly
Entering her, making her obey
But the triumph is short

For a moment or two
Just enough for nature’s role
To wreck its havoc

The woman submits
Submits willingly
To make man suspicious of her

Submits easily
To him and to many others
The great whore she is

To fulfill her destiny.
But the moment
The child is born

She is through with him
He is finished
He can croak


Note: A rendition of a prose passage in
The World of Lawrence by Henry Miller

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

She Worships Her Husband Like This

She worships her husband
Like this:
They wash and perfume themselves,
And sit in front of each other
on a platform smeared with cow-dung.

He is in his thong,
She in her finest dress.
She circles several times,
Around his head

A silver plate full of
Several condiments and
Burning incense. She sips
Water as she chants

That she does not understand--
Some mumbo-jumbo of
An ancient tongue
Of an ancient land.

Then she sprays water on herself
Like this

She pinches her nose
As if she were to sneeze,
While reciting mantras
Like spring breeze.

She continues reciting
Mantras and after mantras
Like this

She tells her hubby
To sit cross legged
On a wooded plank
And pours water on his feet

Pours water into his cupped hands,
Tilting his head backwards
Pours water in his mouth,
Gives him a kurta and dhoti.

Then she pours honey, butter
Yogurt all stirred in milk
And coconut water
On his head like this.

She follows pouring a bucket
Of water on his head.
Now all wet, he gets
Another kurta and dhoti.

Further mumbo-jumbo
Now accompanied by
Throwing flowers on
His organs from toes to head.

Now she calls him
By his one-hundred-eight names.
Like this,
Like this.

More mantras,
Three time again clockwise
Circling a silver-plate around his head
And then bowing before him.


She shows him an umbrella
She fans him,
She sings and dances
To please him.

She leads him to be seated
On a swing, on a pony
On an elephant and reads
Texts of fortune to him.


All incense burnt,
All elixirs poured,
All names called,
All Gods invoked

She rushes to the kitchen
Hungry, tired, loved, admired,
To eat fruits and sweets
To her heart’s desire.

All worship done,
All beliefs followed,
Generation to generation
Like this.

Note: This is a husband-worship day ceremony
still practiced in some rural parts of India
once a year.

I will give you a long long passionate kiss

In the stillness of the spring evening,
when the birds have flown back
to roost in their nests for the night,
the sun has set in the golden skies,
I will be holding your hands
lying next to you on the grass,
near the whispering brook.

We will watch the moon rising
in the Southern skies.
I will roll over on a side
and whisper words of love
And give you a long long
passionate kiss closing my eyes.
I will kiss you on shoulders, on your nape
on your front neck, behind your ears,
fondling you, holding you tight.

As the night falls, we will
Dance slowly our love dance --
Lips to lips, cheeks to cheeks, eyes to eyes.
Hand in hand hands we will stroll
Under the starry skies on our way back home.
And at night, we will roll in our gift of love.

O my love, my sweet sweet love!

My darling, my philosopher
My poet, my lover,
Mi adorado, minha amor,
I am thinking of you.

Your passionate kisses, warm embraces,
Your soulful eyes, sweet whispers,
Your soft touch, all melt my heart
And put me in a spell of love.

I miss you so much my love,
I want to be in your arms.
I want to hug you, kiss you, feel you
and tell you how much I love you.

O my love, my sweet sweet love!
You have breathed life into me.
Now enamored by your love,
Never will I be loveless again.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

When fools follow the fools

The self-help gurus
The goddamn cheats
The holy men of Ganges
The preachers
The ministers
The politicians
The clergy
The bureaucrats
The orderly
The businessmen
The middlemen
Are all spreading lies
Daily
Daily;
For selfish reasons
For pride
For power
For money.
Each one
Thinks
He can outwit
The other,
Each one thinks
He is smarter
than the other,
but everyone
is phony.

A nincompoop
At the top
Has surrounded
Himself with
Other nincompoops
Who are loyal
To him
but all phony.
When the fools
Follow the fools,
When the fools
Elect the fools,
When the fools
serve the fools,
what can
you expect
if not misery
and agony.

All my love, and a rose

It's cold here.
The sun is setting in gold,
I see the bold birch trees
through the windows swaying.
The wind is blowing fiercely
bringing with it the spring showers.
It’s cozy and peaceful inside,
I am listening to Vivaldi
and am missing you
this Sunday afternoon.

If you were with me,
I would cook supper for you
and make your favorite pie.
I’d open a bottle of champagne
and pour a glassful for you,
sparkling bubbles for
our sparkling, bubbling love.
My darling, everything
is wonderful here
but I’m not happy,
I feel so lonely.

I want you, my sweetheart,
I want your love.
Come soon, I feel empty.
Fulfill me. I will give you
all my love, and a rose.

The Word

I fell in love with words
when I was a child.
Mommy
I could hear, see, smell
my mom, I could
feel her kisses on my face,
I could taste
the sweetness of candy.
Just one word, mommy.
All love, all caring.
My whole world,
with one word, mommy.

Now I am old,
I still love words.
I connect
with the larger world.
I want to say few
but precise words.
I want to hear few
but chiseled,
sharpened words
to know exactly
what you mean,
when you say:
you know what I mean.

I even look for words
in foreign languages,
I read the foreign poetry.
For I have learnt,
when people speak clearly,
there’s no conflict.
We all become one,
a wonderful family.


Note: Inspired by a poem in Italian,
La Parola, by Paolo Ruffilli

Not poetry, just coping with bad things

Anything bad can happen
But a bad thing may not be a bad thing
A bad thing is bad, but not so bad
But what is the sound of a bad thing?

Bad things have happened before
If a bad thing happens, Allah wills it so
But kill the person who brings a bad thing
Or blame the bad people for bad things

If a bad things happens, you deserve it
Let bad thing happen to others
Why complain? Bad things are bound to happen
Don’t worry when it happens. Beer will drown it

What’s bad to you is bad too to others
If something bad happens, why talk about it?
Be born again if something bad happens
Don’t ask why always bad things come to you

Bad things happen when you don’t work
Bad things don’t happen on Fridays
Bad things don’t happens on Saturdays
Blame God. God made all bad things

Bad thing may become worse things
Even then you pray, always pray
It doesn’t really happen. It happens in your mind
Let us see why bad things do happen

Let us not fight over a bad thing
A bad thing is not the worst thing
A bad thing for someone is a good thing for another
We cannot live without bad things

From a distance a bad thing looks like a good thing
Bad things don’t happen to righteous ones
Unrighteous will suffer bad things again and again
Harm no one if to you a bad thing happens

Really bad things don’t happen, only bad things happen
If a bad thing happens, pray God not to happen again
When bad things happen, good things will come
Bad thing happen not all the time

What are bad things anyway?
What a bad thing to think of bad things
Only bad think of bad things
There are no bad things

Note: Based on Shit Happens posted elsewhere.

They come, one by one

When shutters of shops are down,
lights are out,
the parking spaces
in front of the shops
are clearing out,
they come, one by one,
in their tattered clothes,
with a sheet or a blanket
to spread on the floor to sleep out.

They do not talk.
Sometime so burdened down
with life, they cannot walk.
They need some sleep fast
before next dawn they
are chased out.
The blessed ones, the kingdom
of heaven belongs to them.
But on earth, they’re the scum.

Homage to Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen

I see the inner peace
in your eyes and face.
I see the calmness
in which you meditate
writing poems verse by verse
of everything in this universe.
The world is your home
and poetry, seeing and being.

You relate things to real life
through voices and images
weaving together the inner
and the outer life.
The transparency of the world
you make us see
in the distant brightness of the sky.

In the shadows of walls cast by star-lights,
a sudden face emerges
in the silent breathing of nights,
among the clamor of people
in the rooms and streets of city life.

Your “scent of the linden and of oregano”
sends me to new heights.
Sophia, your poems in my loneliness
have brought me many delights.

Monday, March 20, 2006

O women! why art thou so jealous?

I love many people –
Mom, dad, brothers, sisters
Members of congregation, ministers,
Colleagues, friends, girl friends.
But when it comes to sex
Why do I have to love one woman?

O sex! what sin hast thou committed?

Many women love making love to me.
I love making love to many women.
But each one wants to be the only
One, to whom I make love.

O women! why art thou so jealous?

Yes darling, O darling!

We will take showers together
Under the jets of warm water.
I will fondle you, play with you first,
Massaging your back and front,
Kissing your lips and breasts.

I’ll move my hand down your belly
To touch you further down softly,
Right under the warm jets.
Standing or lying down in the tub,
We will bend for a passionate rub

Till we can't wait to rush to bed,
Gasping: Yes darling, O darling!

In feelings of love

Since the day I met you
Everyday you’re on my mind.
I feel wonderful you’re in my life.

I think of you in the morning.
At work it seems you’re near me.
At night I feel I’m missing you.

Such pleasant feelings
Are new to me. Sometime I wonder
If this could be love?

What else could it be?
I feel I am floating
In feelings of love.

She's my love from Maringa

She's my love from Maringa
Beautiful and lovely
Cute and cuddly
Happy and bubbly

She's slim, tall and pretty
Tanned brown, a beauty
She swings as she walks
And smiles as she talks

Love poems she writes
She’s wonderful, agile
Charming and bright
Simple in styles

She’s sweet and sexy
Loves flowers and perfumes
We make love like cats, climbing
On roofs under full moons

Unforgiving

Standing there, you s.o.b.,
You’re reading,
My birth and death dates
And my name.

Your visit will not lessen
My pains that you gave.
Nor will it erase
Your guilt or shame.

I tried my best I could -
Too good to others.
Everything I did
Got me into troubles.

If you're asking for forgiveness,
For your wrongs against me,
I cannot forgive you now,
Take your conscience to your grave.

Do not lay flowers here.
Save them for your grave.
They are stained with blood.
You have touched them.

Go and see your face
In the mirror. Do not shed
Tears here. May your guilt
Haunt you in your grave.

Kids without mom and I, a widower!

Hello, hello
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
OK dear, listen: Pick up the kids at five.
I’m now on I-ten,
The traffic is heavy,
I am in a hurry.


Then the screeching sound.
The cell phone goes dead.
I call back. No answer.
Only a recorded voice:
Please leave your message,
I will call back.


O God, what happened?
Is she in an accident? Dead?
I panic. Now what? Now what?
Kids without mom and I, a widower!

My heart is pounding.
I am trembling.
A hot flush in me is running!
I dial her number wrong.

Next moment the phone rings:
Hello, hello, do your hear me?
I just escaped an accident
I am OK, I dropped the phone.


My heart stops racing
I heave a sigh: Thank God,
You are all right, I almost fainted
Hearing the screeching sound.
I’ll pick up the kids at five.
Don’t worry. Drive safe. Be careful.

In this fast world of ours,
We do not hasten our death.
We die many times
Before we die.

When an old boy friend of yours calls

When an old boy friend of yours calls
You haven’t seen in ages,
And he says just a hello
Wishing you a good life,
You wonder what he’s up to.

Why he wants to be in touch?
Why he can’t forget the past?
Our mind plays games
Wondering how could it have been,
If life had taken a different turn.

Swept by your love

Reading your letter,
I am sobbing.
Tears are trickling
down my eyes.

I wish you were
here with me, whispering:
“I love you, my darling,
I will love you eternally.”

Swept by your love,
I cannot be alone.
But I will wait
for you forever,
Please promise you’d come.

You are now everything to me.
I now live for you.
Let’s be together soon.
My darling, I miss you.

Ball Games

He spends the whole weekend
sitting before the telly,
in his room with buddies,
wearing shorts, no shirt,
smoking cigarettes to butt-ends
and gulping down cases of beer,
cheering, cussing, thumping
on the table hard whenever
his team scores a goal.

He has a beer-belly.
Unshaven, untidy, unkempt,
his breath stinks,
he munches on pretzels
cheetos and chips
all day long and asks his wife
to make burgers and weenies
for him and his buddies
during the game breaks.

She is tired of his shit
and wants to kick his butt out
but she can't. She is a white trash.
She needs a home to live
and has three kids to feed.

Rangers lost,
Nine to three,
Get me some beer, honey.
What a shit!


Click, click, click.

There’s nothing now to see on TV.
Our team lost again.
Honey, get me more beer.
What a shit!

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Crazy Lover

When you touch me,
a cold waves passes
through me,
a tremor shakes
my being.

When you embrace me
and place your lips
upon my lips,
I close my eyes.
I want to treasure
each moment
with you
in my memory.

Crazy lover,
You make me wild.
I love being with you.
You are making
a new woman
out of me.

As I awake this morning

As I awake this morning,
each morning,
a jumble of thoughts
streak into my mind…

~Shekhar Kapoor

http://www.intentblog.com/archives/2006/03/the_jumble.html#more


As I awake this morning
Like every other morning
I do wake up in the morning

A jumble of thoughts
Stumble in my humble mind
And I crumble all thoughtlessness

Each thread of thought
Is a thread, a sticky thread
Like butter spread on bread
I untangle the threads
Facing their sticky stickiness

Till I realize
What a fool I am
I must accept all sticky messiness
It is all a jungle I mumble
Why fumble in these threads
I sigh a sigh of relief
Holding my inner belief

Wow! what a daily fight
For myself to survive.
I shall win with might
Like every day and night

For my mind is a sissy
Facing chaos it goes all pissy –
No topsy-turvyness
No topsy-turvydom
No pandemonium
No nothing does it like
More than I do like
(or do not like
how do I know?)

Darling, please be careful

Darling, when you’re getting late,
Please give me a call.
I sit by the window,
I watch the way you’d come.

I pray for you, all is well.
You are safe on the road.
No trouble with the car.
Nor stuck in the snow.
Everything with you is swell.

Not stuck in the office.
No fights with your boss.
No hassles in the deals
Of your goddamn clients.

My thoughts sometime wander
to that bitch of a Sussie who flirted
with you at the pool party,
right in front of my eyes.
And I was going to give her
a punch right in her eyes.

That shameless bitch with
her bulging silicone boobs,
giggling in her false teeth,
dimpling in her uplifted face,
lisping in her rounded lips,
flirted with you in front of my eyes --
asking you if your love was well
and you wanted a night out sometime.

Darling, please be careful.
I love you.
I do not want to lose you.
And you know,
I am always jealous.

Saturday, March 18, 2006

She Howls and We Play – a painting of Paul Klee


“Come on, Elfie
I will nibble your nape,
I bet you can’t jump over me.”

“No, I do not like this game,”
says Elfie to Wolfie.
"You bite my tail.
I will bite yours.
We’ll see who can
first wiggle out it’s tail.”

While Delfie likes to play
yet another game. She lies down
with her legs up on the ground
and challenges both Elfie and Wolfie
calling out their names:
“You both come and jump over me,
I'll catch you both by the tails.”

The mother wolf under
the full moon howls:
“No one dare come near here,
my babies are at play.
Leave us all alone."

You do not write me much

You wished me good morning
sending me an email with pictures
of butterflies flitting over flowers,
kissing their mates in the air.

You wished me good night
by the evening email,
a picture of your lonely bed,
a lamp on the bedside table
with an empty blue and yellow vase.

You do not write me much.
Not many words of passion,
Not many words of love--
Simply I wait for you, my love.

I see your photos
when I go to bed at night.
Waking up in the morning,
I find my pillow in my arms.

Hello

I see you
sitting across the room.
Alone, sipping you coffee,
talking on the cell phone.

Who are you?
I look at you from
the corners of my eyes,
I catch your secret glances.
I catch your subdued smile.

You look so simple
and yet so elegant.
There’s something special
abut you, I cannot tell what.
You have sort of captivated me
and I’m desiring to know who you are.

Are you telling your friend
what’s happening here now –
we are stealing glances,
both wanting to say hello
but do not know how.

Don’t leave soon.
I will wait to see if you are real
and will be happy hearing my hello.
Don't leave soon, next time
you are trying to steal a glance
I will look into your eyes.

Friday, March 17, 2006

F You

Hello
Hello, who is it?
An Indian voice:
It's me
Me who?
Guess who

I hang up
Damn you
I do not play juvenile games
I have many things to do

Next moment
The phone rings again
The same number
I lift up the receiver
And put it down

I lose my line of thought
I lose my composure
Some freak, idler idiot
F you, F you

A half nude buxom girl

I am responsible for what I see
I choose the feelings I experience
And set the goals I will achieve.
And everything that seems to happen to me
I ask for and receive as I have asked. ~Deepak Chopra



While driving on a highway
I saw a billboard showing
A half nude buxom girl
Holding a glassful of milk
Nearing her bulging breasts
And saying, “Got milk?”

I desired milk that moment.
I desired to drink her goblets of milk.
How was I responsible to see this?
How could have I not desired milk?
Were desires not put into me?
Was I driving asking for milk?
Why should I be responsible
Still desiring goblets of milk?

What other feelings could have I chosen?
Piglets nursing, sucking a sow’s tits!
Or perhaps to stop unholy feelings,
I should have grabbed the holy rosary,
Dangling from the rear view mirror
And would have gone chanting like this:
hai ram, hai bhagwan, sita ram, sita ram.”

Make love to me tonight

Kiss me, kiss me
Hold me tight,
I am crazy for you,
Make love to me tonight.

Love me,
As if the world ends tonight.
Let me love you,
As if it’s our last night.

Embrace me,
Look into my eyes.
See my passion,
Deep inside.

Kiss me, love me,
Hold me tight,
I am crazy for you,
Make love to me tonight.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Smiles emerge sideways

On a roadside wooden cart
on four wheels,
brownish cooking oil
in a frying pan on a gas stove
is boiling. Giving off white fumes.

The vendor, a Chinese woman
in her late forties, early fifties
petite, slim, wearing a big
broad brimmed straw hat

picks up a handful
of cockroaches, some crawling,
other dead, from a bucket
on the floor under her cart

and places them into the boiling oil.
She fries them to golden brown.
Nearby stand and squat her clients,
holding in their hands fried goodies

on plates molded out of banana leaves.
They pick two or three fried cockroaches
at a time, dip them into watery
reddish sweet and sour sauce.

They open their mouth wide
and slide them on their tongues.
Jaws open and close and emit sounds:
Crunch, crunch. Crunch crunch.

Smiles emerge sideways.
Eyes glitter in happiness.
What a delicacy! Fried cockroaches
served on banana leaves in Hongkong.

She is a beauty I hath never seen

Turn away thine eye from a beautiful woman,
and look not upon another's beauty;
for many have been deceived by the beauty of a woman;
for herewith love is kindled as a fire.
9:8 somewhere in the Bible.


O dear Lord, Why ye punisheth me?
Why ye telleth me not to behold
in my heart a damsel’s beauty,
whence my heart pineth for her?

I cannot turneth away my eyes from her,
She is a beauty I hath never seen.
I love this lady, O Lord of Lords.
Grant me love, have some mercy.

She puteth fire in my soul.
She boileth my blood in my body.
My blood rusheth hither and thither.
Without her, O Lord, I would wither.

I cannot turneth away my eyes from her.
She kindleth love like fire in my heart.
Now I tendeth not sheep nor ploughth my fields,
Day and night she maketh me crazy in my mind.

Please grant me my lovely shepherdess
Who walketh on holy mount Aaron.
She will tendeth my sheep, beareth my children.
We shall worship thee in thy holy name.

I am not a Christian

Dear Sirach, whoever you are,
I thank you for reading my poems.
Please don’t quote the Bible to me.
I am not a Christian.

I love the story of Jesus.
I love Mary, his virgin mother.
I love his father in the heaven.
But I am not a Christian.

I do read Bible sometime,
Not to wash away my sins,
Nor to go up in the heaven.
But just for inspiration

To write my poems.
Please don’t mistake me
For someone holy or the one
Who must be made holy.
I am not a Christian.

If you want to spread
The words of your God,
Please seek a pulpit elsewhere.
Here I write only poetry
And I am not a Christian.

PS: With due regards and holy respect, I am deleting
the Bible quotes you posted as comments.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Tell me, please tell me

Tell me, please
tell me, all about you.
You are a stranger
stealing my soul.

I love your playful words
I love what you say,
but I do not know
who you are.

I do not know your ways.
I am delicate, be careful,
don’t rob me of my soul
that's all I have.

Me and my poor soul
you have touched.
The strings of my heart
ring sweet music now.

Please come and be with me,
be not impossible.
My heart is singing love
waiting to be with you.

Tell me, please
tell me, all about you.
You are a stranger
stealing my soul.

My Son Returneth From War

There be two things that grieve my heart;
and the third maketh me angry: a man of war
that suffereth poverty; and men of understanding
that are not set by; and one that returneth
from righteousness to sin; the Lord prepareth
such an one for the sword. Bible, Proverbs 26:28?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


My son returneth
From a far off wretched war,
Not far off in the desert where
Rideth on a donkey my Lord.

Bullets bust his back.
He cannot walketh, he cannot talketh,
His girls friend runneth to other man.
Now he sufferth in poverty.
It grieveth my heart.

Men of undertstaning
(but really of mis-understanding)
who sendeth my son there
are still not set by the Lord.
It too grieveth my heart.

In righteousnnes we praiseth the Lord.
Righteousness returneth to sin
When we butcherth innocent people in war.
It angereth my heart.

Still I readeth the Bible.
Still I praiseth the Lord,
Still I voteth for someone
Who maketh himself mad
And sendeth my son to war.

I will be making love to you

I will be making love to you
softly, tenderly and sometime
like tornadoes, like storms
lightning the skies.

Wherever you like:
bed, floor, kitchen
sofa, chair, showers
car, park, beach
or under a tree,
I will be making love to you.

Don’t be silly, tell me
how would you like:
top, under, sides,
straddling, sliding
legs on legs, lips on lips,
holding tight, breathing fast
Oh yes, breathing fast, aye, aye
I will be making love to you

Day and night.

post coitus:
Wherever, whenever, my darling,
but not on a tree.
My friend, too much into
practicing, tried it once,
and while the storms were gathering,
and the lightning was about to strike,
his sliding slipped sending him
down to the ground from the tree limb,
his member unhurt but fracturing a limb.
Thank Jesus, he was a Christian.

Monday morning, he came
to his office, limping
with crutches under armpits.
Good morning, Charlie,
what happened? I said.
"It was your damned book
of Kamasutra I tried
reading on the weekend," he said.

A disastrous coitus interruptus.
We both burst into laughing.

Eyes

Your beautiful, lovely eyes
How can I tell you
How I love your eyes.

That love, that passion
I see in your eyes,
Is unbearable
Saying goodbyes

This parting moment,
Our love is calling,
Raining in tears.

Give me a smile now
My darling. I love you.
I’ll be back. I’m going

Just for a while.
I’ve to go you know
Just for a while.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

I’m going crazy desiring you

you come home late
everyday of the week

and soon put on
a robe for the night

in the morning you get up early
and rush to put on your business-suit

O my darling! the time is flying
and I do not have enough of you

your morning kiss brings the dew
and puts freshness into my life

your good night kiss brings me hope
my love you always will be

but darling, when you are away
I think of you and miss you

I want to give my love to you
I’m going crazy desiring you

Sesame Seeds

sesame seeds on burger buns
roll smoothly on the tongue

sesame seeds on Indian sweets
add flavor to them so discreet

but massage-cream mixed with sesame seeds
is beyond doubt so very rare and unique

when rubbed on the shoulders of lovers
all their heart aches it covers

I want to tell her I love her

I am missing her today.
I want to hold her in my arms.
I want to tell her I love her.
I want to make love to her.

I go to her apartment building.
I stand on the road and look up at the window.
The window is open, the curtain is shifting,
She must be there resting, doing something.

I dare not go upstairs.
She might not be alone.
What if she has another boyfriend,
In the afternoon secretly visiting.

I walk to the flower shop
And send her a bouquet of roses,
With a note: darling I am missing you
Downstairs I am waiting.

The flower boy delivered the roses
More than an hour ago.
She did not come to the window
To see if I was standing below.

Perhaps she is eyeing me hiding
With her new lover behind the window.
I have waited long enough. I am leaving.
I cannot give my love to a whore.

Monday, March 13, 2006

don’t call me mi vida, my darling

don’t call me mi vida, my darling
mi vida, mi vida

don’t call me mi vida not knowing me
where does life stay forever
what do ignorants know
would someone leave knowingly

dry monsoons rained
many times from my eyes
still two drops did not fall
from moist lashes of eyes

lips bent over lips
breathing stirred the breathings
the meeting of two lips
was expressed by the eyes

*****
Original lyrics in Hindi at:
http://www.geetmanjusha.com/hindi/lyrics/486.html

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Man and Love

Laila had Majnu.
Tarzan had Jane.
But my friend’s beloved
brought him much pain.

Love is not all pleasure.
Love is not a treasure.
It is just a measure
of life’s pleasures and pains.

It is so strange –
those who have it value not it.
But when they lose it,
they go crazy for it.

Moon struck Majnus and Tarzans,
lose sleep for Lailas and Janes,
and find too late: the fun ends
on mating their mates.

Voltaire’s Candide longed
all life for Cunegonde.
His longing for her ends
when he marries her finally -
though already haggard and old.

Man does not learn
life’s goal is not God and love.
Alas! for man love is like God.
Both exist for he wants them to exist.

How strange is this!
The deluded man finds
the purpose of his life
only in God and love.

Is there anything more to it?

Homer in the fifth book of Odyssey, in English and in Hindi

The following stanza translated by George Chapman
has fabulous imagery. The last line is remarkable.

Then forth he came, his both knees falt'ring, both
His strong hands hanging down, and all with froth
His cheeks and nostrils flowing, voice and breath
Spent to all use, and down he sank to death.
The sea had soak'd his heart through....

******

Translation into Hindi is given below.
Thanks to Rahul Pandita for editing.

Fir wo aagay aaya,
dono ghuton par girta hua,
dono mazboot haath lataktay say huay,
moonh aur naak say nikalti hooee jhaag,
aakhri ho rahay thay uskay sans aur alfaaz,
ghir pada wo, ho gya uska aantim vas.
Saagar bhar chukka thaa uskay hirday main....

Sweet succulent cherries

As I placed
my face against her breasts

I felt two doves
each pecking a dark-red cherry.

A year ago in the early spring,
I had plenty of peaches and melons

and I savoured succulent cherries.

The spring is now back with old memories
but the doves seem not to be coming.

Ah! my peaches, my melons,
my sweet succulent cherries.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Those who talk too much of God

Those who talk too much of God
Are not godly people.
They are mentally delinquent.

Their existence of God
lies only in questioning
the existence of God.

Questions like: does God
have a future? Does God
do this or that are all absurd.

Spiritual gurus – pundits, priests
mullahs, muezzins, voodooists -
what are they good for humanity?

Do they not add absurdity to absurdity?
What do they have in originality?
They thrive on God said this, Spirit said that.

Bulleh Shah says: what do you know who I am

What do you know who I am

Not a believer inside a mosque
Not a disbeliever of false rites
Not someone holy among the unholy
Not Moses nor Pharaoh

What do you know who I am

I am not in the texts of Vedas
Not in liquors nor in marijuana
Not in the drunkards dreamy daze
Not asleep nor awake

what do you know who I am

Neither happy nor unhappy
Neiteher clean or unclean
Neither from water nor from dust
From air or fire I do not come from

What do you know who I am

I come not from Arabia, nor from Lahore
Not from the Indian city of Naguari
I am not a Hindu nor a Turk
Who lives in Peshawar or Nadaun

What do you know who I am

Hidden truths of religions I did not find
I am not of Adam’s and Eve’s kind
I did not assume my name myself
In movement or stillness I am not in

What do you know who I am

I found in myself I am the first
None other, no stranger
No one is as wise as I am.
Is there anyone like me?

*****

Original in Punjabi

Bulleh! ki jaana maen koun

Na maen momin vich maseet aan
Na maen vich kufar diyan reet aan
Na maen paakaan vich paleet aan
Na maen moosa na pharaun

Bulleh! ki jaana maen kaun

Na maen andar ved kitaabaan
Na vich bhangaan na sharaabaan
Na vich rindaan masat khawaabaan
Na vich jaagan na vich saun.

Bulleh! ki jaana maen kaun

Na vich shaadi na ghamnaaki
Na maen vich paleeti paaki
Na maen aabi na maen khaki
Na maen aatish na maen paun

Bulleh! ki jaana maen kaun

Na maen arabi na lahori
Na maen hindi shehar nagauri
Na hindu na turak peshawri
Na maen rehnda vich nadaun

Bulleh! ki jaana maen kaun

Na maen bheth mazhab da paaya
Ne maen aadam havva jaaya
Na maen apna naam dharaaya
Na vich baitthan na vich bhaun

Bulleh! ki jaana maen kaun

Avval aakhir aap nu jaana
Na koi dooja hor pehchaana
Maethon hor na koi siyaana
Bulla! ooh khadda hai kaun

~Bulleh Shah

Thursday, March 09, 2006

The Movie Man

He is getting screwed up
Turning self evidence
Into elusiveness

He cannot think straight
He philosophizes
On a simple web of things

And fruitlessly keeps
On searching for
Some absolute thing

He likens himself
To an instrument like
An ancient philosopher

Who held his pen down
On the paper and said
He was a just piece of

The grand design of things –
He did not write. God moved
The pen on paper to write!

So what should he do?
What should he not do?
He makes much ado
About nothing!

The great philosopher he is
The great spiritual master he is
Of his guru the faithful follower he is.

Do not Go for Your Neighbor's Wife - from Bible

Do not go for your neighbor’s wife,
Nor listen to an adulteress’ smooth tongue.
In your heart lust not for her beauty
Nor be captivated by glances of love.

A loose women is not worth
The price of a loaf of bread.
If she is married, she will
Trap you for all your life.

Will the burning fires of love
Spare the clothes a man wears?
Will a man walking on hot coal
Not get his feet burned?

If you are caught, her husband
Will give you a degrading beating.
No redress he will consider,
In vengeance you'll get thrashing.

*****
from Proverbs, Chapter 6
This is my rendering from different versions of Bible.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Anonymous Creature

Anonymous creature,
a dolt by-product of a brief hush-hush
union of two other anonymous creatures,
somewhere long ago in the darkness
of a long hot boring summer night,
you cannot see yet cannot resist
flaunting unwanted advice.

Your visits are not welcome.
Take your brilliant brain to bogs
for blessings and reikies there.
It isn't good for your holy brain
to be in undue unholy strain.
Who forces you to be here?
What impels you to be here?

Do you believe in soul mates?

"Do you believe in soul mates?"
asks a lady whose cranial neurons
have learnt only one thing:
Vedas or Bible or some such thing.

Believing in gods, God, ghosts and souls
is the easiest thing in the world.
All our problems, all our doubts
all our mournings and miseries it solves.

There is an answer then
to everything in the world:
life, purpose of your life
love, lust, hate, peace, war
sex, crap, clap, disease, death.

You need no brain then.
You need no intellect then.
You can explain everything in the world
Using gods, God, ghosts, souls.

You are then worse than animals.
Animals use instincts to survive.
No use for them are God and souls.
You survive by what science provides
and still believe in ghouls and souls.

You are then worse than animals.
Your desire for mating is ludicrous.
Never satisfied with it when alive,
when dead, you want to mate with souls!

A Yodeling Lost-Love Song

Aa aa, oo oo
oo, oo…
aa oo…

She was my love
I could not get her
aa oo, aa oo
Oo,oo…

I could marry her
I did not marry her
aa oo, aa oo
Oo,oo…oo,oo

I married another one
She does not love me
I do not love her
I want my old love back
aa oo, aa oo
Oo,oo…oo,oo

My old love is angry
My wife is angry
I am sad and hungry
aa oo, aa oo
Oo,oo…oo,oo

I am going crazy
I am going lazy
The life is shit
It’s a bog pit
aa oo, aa oo
Oo,oo…oo,oo

She was my love
I could not get her
aa oo, aa oo
Oo,oo…

Oo, oo
Aa, aa, oo…
Oo…

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Two lovers in a city

Two lovers in a city
At mid-day or at night
Search for ways to live,
Search for a loving place to live.

One day their home will be somewhere
In these labyrinthine streets.
The windows will open to the skies,
The skies will enter through the windows.

Two lovers with sky-blue eyes,
Now look for excuses to live
(Somewhere in these streets.)

When the stars burn on the earth
The skies turn into the earth.
That night the moon does not set
It retires right here on earth.

They look for a world, through their eyes,
Even momentarily…

***
This is my translation of Hindi lyrics of Gulzar,
Sung by Runa Laila-Bhupenra
In the movie, Gharonda.

http://geetgunjan.tripod.com/lyrics/316.html

I want to know the date of my death

I want to know
The date of my death.
The year of death would be fine.

I have been saving money
For my old age. I am old now
And still saving money

I might need
When I get older,
Older than I am now.

I want to spend all before I die,
But I am afraid
I will be a pauper in old age.

I learned many things in life,
But could never learn
The economics of money.

I wish I knew
The date of my death.
The year of death would be fine.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Sleeping with women

How do you feel
When you come home late
And find your wife weeping

Knowing well

You had been cheating,
Sleeping with women
At your work place?

Rotten. No?

It is all in numbers

A murderer who kills
One person,
Gets one death sentence.

And the one who kills
Ten persons
Gets ten times one death sentence.

That’s how the law
Works in USA.
It’s all in numbers.

Numbers of dollars in the bank
Numbers of cars in the driveway
Numbers of houses you own
Numbers of women you’ve made love to
Numbers of years your wife is old
Numbers of years you’ve had hold

Numbers of years you serve in the white house
Numbers of years elected to the house
Numbers of thugs that help you
Numbers of people you lick their ass
Numbers of people who lick your ass

It is all in numbers.
Like sentencing a convict
Ten times his life imprisonment.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

He only wanted my touch!

My friend’s shy dog, Squealer
Looked like a little brown pig.
He was hit by a car and died
On the spot several weeks ago.

He was buried near the gate of the farm
Where he would come to greet me
When I visited my friend,
Or would accompany me and my friend
When it was time to say good bye.

Whenever I would pet Khaki,
The old cat that would come
To rub herself against my legs,
He would get jealous
And run to me for a rub.
I preferred Khaki to him,
Did not much like him,
And would tell him
To get away from me.
He would leave gazing at me
As if he were crying.

Now when I remember him
I see his sad gaze he could not hide.
I wish I had showed him some affection.
Poor Squealer only wanted my touch!

Friday, March 03, 2006

Man is stupid

man is stupid
when it comes to love

when he is free
he wants to be fettered

when he is fettered
he wants to be free

but when he wants
to change his chains

it's certain
he has no brains

PS: Inspired by a poem of Rahul Pandita.

I would not touch such a woman

I entered her quiet bedroom.
The bed neatly made.
Covered with a light
Pinkish satiny comforter.

Near the radio time-clock
On the bed side table,
A copy of Bhagavad Gita.
A copy of Madushala lay.

On the walls hung
Two photos of her parents in frames,
Marigold garlands around them.
They did not look too old or too young.

The window with floral
Ruffled curtains looked out
In the backyard garden
Where roses and lilies waved.

Against the wall facing the window,
Her dressing table with plain and
Magnifying oval mirrors with brushes
Creams, rouge and mascara lay.

In a corner, a little shrine.
A small statue of Durga in sari
With a bindi on the forehead.
A smoldering stick giving off

fragrance of roses with rose petals
scattered at it’s feet was placed.
Small pictures of Shiva, Sarasvati
Laxmi and Kali adorned the shrine.

Her dead parents lived in her mind.
Her dead gods blessed her soul.
She fought demons of madushala
With dharma of Krishna of Gita.

What's lusting for love to her?
What's lusting for sex to her?
Can her heart ever feel what’s
Dying and be born again in love?

I could have her but wouldn’t want her.
She could have me but wouldn’t want me.
Women, as Lawrence said once, don’t want sex.
They want men. They bargain sex for men.

I would not touch such a woman.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

I have loved you with indifference

For a long time
You have been gone.
For a long time
I have loved you
With indifference.
Sometime secretly
No utterance.

Still I hated to lose you.
And you vacillated
Between me and your lover.
Now the party is over.
Don’t look back.
There’s no left-over.

Yesterday Evening

Yesterday evening,
As we were dancing
On the country club dancing floor,
You whispered:
“Honey, you are the love of my life,
Everyday I love you more.”

And yet I knew,
The night before,
You were not late from work
And I didn’t have a minor wreck.
You were sleeping with Randy after work
And Candy visited me for a quick work-up.

Slough

Those little black mud balls,
when I rub my skin, come off.
What are they called?

Slough, slough, slough.

Now tell me
where do they come from?

Death of the old.
Birth of the new.
Like Hindu Karma:
Living and dying,
Eighty-four-million times.

Pious Pope’s Penis

Pope’s penis is no holier
Than yours or mine

While ours are free to dig into gold mines
His penis suffers under his robes confined

It dangles there suffocated
Come rain, come shine

They charge up during the night
Ready for firing in the morning

Ours for pleasure hitting mortal targets
His in anger to bring heavens down

His is no holier but a crazier penis
Alas! Jesus won't let him use his penis

Poor papa pope, do you not suffer from
pleasure deprivations of your penis?

Loving her in her six-yard pink floral silk sari

I cannot imagine
while I am lying
in my striped pajamas
beside her in the bed

she stays wrapped
in a six-yard silk
pink floral sari,
and keeps her pink choli on

with black bras and panties underneath.
And her old parents,
sitting side by side
peering at me

through a large
framed photo hanging on
her bed room wall
adorned with garlands of Marigold.

How dare I fondle
their daughter,
so innocent, so pure.
And mother Kali

an avatar of mother Durga
who listened to her prayers
days and night for years
for gaining a faithful husband

might suddenly jump out
of her stone statue by the table -
sitting on a blood thirsty
roaring ferocious lion

her face darker than the darkest night,
her sclera brighter than mid-day sun,
dressed in silver and gold
embroidered red blouse and a silken sari

with her pouting pink tongue
pierced with many silver spikes,
carrying in one hand a freshly
cut-off head of a young man

still dripping red with blood
and in her other hands
a three-pronged Shiva’s spear ,
coiled snakes and paraphernalia

of violent murderers and killers,
shouting out loud to me:
“Leave alone my sweet devotee
Or I will cut off your penis now,
and send you to rot in the hell."

Her parents, her six-yard pink floral silk sari,
her mother Kali, her ever-smoldering sticks
of incense of roses and tulsi agarbati
failing to mask the curry smell,
spreading from her kitchen everywhere

would turn me off like bog smell.
I cannot think of myself
holding her in my arms
and loving lying
next to her in bed.

Moments of pleasure in ordinary things

I have no use of quotes and sayings
of gurus dead and bygone,
nor have I use of their brain
less followers’ words of wisdom.

If only you knew how poetry springs
with the play of words in ordinary things,
like the cuckolding of cocks in the morning,
like the croaking of frogs sitting by the pond,

like the wild wolf wailing at the moon,
like your pet dogs serenading the trains,
or the fragrance of white jasmine in the evening,
or the taste of red cherries in the spring

you will see beauty in everything.
No need for sealed ancient wisdom
to seal off your brain for nothing.
But the moments of pleasure in ordinary things.

Inspired on reading Anna Akhmatova’s poem:
I have no use for odic legions.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

It is over there across from Texas

Eighteen year olds,
Fresh from high school,
Or those who never been to high school,
Enroll themselves to be soldiers
To fight the war in Iraq.

They’re sent there to kill or be killed
Or lose their limbs and minds in the war.
When asked: Where is Iraq?
“It is over there across from Texas.”
Most of them reply.

I wonder if they knew where Iraq is
And what this war is all about –
To fight fear, not real enemy –
Would they still volunteer to enroll
To fight the war in Iraq?

Keep off, keep off

Should I call you
an ignoratio elenctic bitch? Why not.
No better name calling suits you.

You self adorned journalist
of dubious fame, rotten spinster,
You aren't even a holy milch cow.

Keep off this blog,
threatening, warning others.
Get into your masturbations

Desiring your charming movie star.
Or go into your suing battles
plagiarising others near and far.

You are not welcome here.
Seek your reikies elsewhere.
Keep off, keep off.

People terrorizing other people

People terrorizing other people,
What are you up to?
What have you brought to
Sciences, arts or humanity?

Camel caravans in the desert,
Palm trees, falcons, shaikhs,
Hubble-bubbles, dry dates,
Muezzins’ calls to heavens’ gates.

All that you have had,
And four wives for each rich man,
While the poor made eunuchs
Served in harems full of pretty women.

You had only one thing
The whole world wanted – the oil.
The mighty and greedy came to you,
Not for you, but for the gold under the soil.

And you thought you became
Mighty, rubbing shoulders sharing the spoil.
Mistaken, you desert dwellers, the world
May soon discard you and your oil.

What will you do?
Go to the top of minarets and shout:
Kill any one who
Does not buy the desert dates and oil!

People terrorizing other people,
Open your eyes. What are you up to?
Once your oil gone or useless,
The world will crush you, crush you.

Like Sunday Kind Of Love

I woke up early this morning
and slipped my hand under her nightie,
caressing her gently, softly.

She woke up feeling my touch
and glided her hand down my belly,
finding me all aroused, she pressed

her legs against mine
and said mumblingly:
"Good morning, love

I don’t want to get out of bed,
it’s Sunday today. Let’s make love
like Sunday kind of love."

Burning in Longings

She has his photo by her bedside,
looking at him she gets aroused.
She starts to play with herself,
in lustful pleasures she gets doused.

She goes crazy thinking of him,
to showers she goes from her bed
to cool her lusting desires down,
all lost in her heart and head.

She wants him now, she cannot wait,
She wants to hold him to her breasts.
He is her lover, her dearest,
burning in longings she cannot rest.