Few poems I read while I was reading through my blog RSS.
Mushroom Clouds
Bullets at the station
Grenades at the Taj
Burning burning
symbols of Raj
Panic at the cafe
mayhem on the streets
talking heads
and their relatives
Mushroom clouds
Mushroom clouds
Mushroom clouds in the sky
Ballots at the poll booth
people of hate
they get reelected
such is our fate
patience wears thin
the rising din
the sad look in her eyes
Mushroom clouds
Mushroom clouds
Mushroom clouds in the westward sky
Mumbai, I Bequeath My Death
http://desicritics.org/2009/11/25/014804.php
Aaj ki raat bahut garam hawa chalti hai
Aaj ki raat na neend aayegi – Kaifi AazmiTonight a very hot wind is blowing
Tonight I won’t be able to sleep – Kaifi Aazmi
I bequeath my death to Mumbai, its many streets, its many lanes
And a sun that never rose on that day
There were no shadows from Bollywood hoardings
Neither from the ghettos of Kurla and Worli
Nor from the mortal divide of a stranger innocenceI bequeath my death to the beggar who died outside the Leopold Café
They shot him and his past; his coins fell from his present
They shot my past too at the narrow street next to it
Where I had once kissed a girl in a fevered evening
And dared again in a night of untoward violenceI bequeath my death to the fireflies at queen’s necklace
That never arrived that day
And to the single Kalashnikov bullet
That stared shamelessly at me
From a footprint in the darkI bequeath my death to many a death
Many a hurt
And the sky that bled
In a single shroud, a single season,
A single wordI bequeath my death to Mumbai poets
Kaifi Aazmi, Arun Kolatkar and many others
And those who died in their end thoughts
They died again and again
With me on that day.
Aaj ki raat bahut garam hawa chalti hai
Aaj ki raat na neend aayegi – Kaifi AazmiTonight a very hot wind is blowing
Tonight I won’t be able to sleep – Kaifi Aazmi
I bequeath my death to Mumbai, its many streets, its many lanes
And a sun that never rose on that day
There were no shadows from Bollywood hoardings
Neither from the ghettos of Kurla and Worli
Nor from the mortal divide of a stranger innocenceI bequeath my death to the beggar who died outside the Leopold Café
They shot him and his past; his coins fell from his present
They shot my past too at the narrow street next to it
Where I had once kissed a girl in a fevered evening
And dared again in a night of untoward violenceI bequeath my death to the fireflies at queen’s necklace
That never arrived that day
And to the single Kalashnikov bullet
That stared shamelessly at me
From a footprint in the darkI bequeath my death to many a death
Many a hurt
And the sky that bled
In a single shroud, a single season,
A single wordI bequeath my death to Mumbai poets
Kaifi Aazmi, Arun Kolatkar and many others
And those who died in their end thoughts
They died again and again
With me on that day.